


Coffee Shop Girl

by Tonight_At_Noon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: All Human, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, And That Is Okay, F/M, alternative universe, if you do like it, some people will not like it, that's great, this was inspired by La La Land, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9607751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonight_At_Noon/pseuds/Tonight_At_Noon
Summary: Darcy Lewis works in the café on the Warner Bros. lot. An aspiring actress, she works hard not to be starstruck by the famous people who enter. It helps knowing they are not all as nice as they seem. Take James Buchanan Barnes for example, who returns to the lot three years after an unfortunate encounter with Darcy to work on a new project. He is the literal worst.





	1. Prologue

_Everybody's bathing in Holy Water,_

_Ain't enough going around,_

_Raise their cups, wipe their crowns_

_You're sitting on a gold-stained alter_

Jungle Youth | Young the Giant

* * *

 

**Prologue | Close Encounters of the Star Kind**

On her first day working at Warner Bros. Latte—the atrociously named café on the Warner Bros. lot—Darcy Lewis, young and naive as she was back then, served her first famous customer. She can remember every single detail about the encounter: For Los Angeles in May, the temperature was oddly cool and there was a biting wind in the air that caused her to arrive at work wearing a scarf; her cat, Sergeant Tibbs, had left grey smatterings of fur on her only pair of black trousers, so she had tied her white apron low enough that customers would be blind to her legs; her boss, Loki, had yelled at her for being on time for her shift and not ten minutes early.

Also, there was a rumour that a certain really very famous actor was going to be on the lot that day for some reshoots he had to do.

James Buchanan Barnes. Romanian-born, American-raised.

Handsome and supposedly charming, James Buchanan Barnes had been the talk of the town practically since he was an infant after "starring" in his first film in which he played his real-life father's son in the Academy Award winning movie _Winter Baby_. A lover of movies, Darcy was thrilled by the idea that there was a possibility of her breathing the same air as the young actor, who, by that time, was 25 years old.

Giddy with unbridled excitement and sweating profusely with nerves, Darcy had entered the cafe to the smell of roasting coffee beans and hope for a bright future. Who knew at that point which famous actors or producers or even measly boom operators would walk in, spot her, and hand her an audition. She was ready to give out her details to anybody who seemed remotely interested. Of course, most of the people she was working with were struggling actors, and Loki had told her that the majority of them had been working alongside him—also a struggling actor—for many years. But she was confident in her abilities. She hadn't travelled all the way from New Mexico only to be run out of town by the crippling fear of failure.

She was going to break out of her shell in Los Angeles. Come into her own and make a name for herself. That was why she had signed up for all of those acting classes and taken part in those silly, lovable community theatre plays. Because, like that old Shakespeare guy had suggested, she was more than prepared to have some greatness thrust upon her. It was high time her amazingness be witnessed by the world.

An hour into her first shift as she worked the register—which was old and really confusing (according to Loki it was all a part of the charm of the place)—the bell that hung above the front entrance to the cafe rang out. Darcy still was unused to the sound and she jumped when it reached her ears, head jerking up towards the door. A body was walking towards her. Dressed head-to-toe in black—black jeans, t-shirt, shoes, baseball cap, sunglasses—the figure wore an almost animalistic snarl. He (definitely a he, she had no doubt) carried himself towards her with a smug cloud surrounding him.

Darcy had seen enough movies to recognise the lower half of the person's face as he stood before her. The dimple in his chin kind of gave him away. It was James Buchanan Barnes. In the flesh. Clipping his fingernails on the countertop as he stared at the menu above Darcy's head.

A sickening tempest of worry and apprehension clashed inside of her. She was not prepared for this. Yes, there was a small portion in the instructional video she had been sent when she got the job that discussed very briefly what to do when an actor walked into the café, but all of the tips from the video leaked out of Darcy's ears. She had no clue how to handle this situation. Did she have enough time to escape into the back and call Loki up to deal with one of the most famous actors in Hollywood? He seemed very focused on the menu board. He probably wouldn't even notice if she disappeared and was replaced by a freakishly tall male.

But, because it was just her luck, the moment she felt ready to run away and force Loki to take her place, James Buchanan Barnes lowered his sunglasses and stared Darcy right in the eye. The soft blue of his eyes, the tenderness and the warmth she found in them, contrasted the harshness of the rest of his body. And just like that she was starstruck and completely unable to move.

She had the nagging suspicion she was supposed to say something. Darcy blinked repeatedly, hoping the words would come to her. "Uh, right," she said lamely. Her voice was small and shaky. She winced. "What can I get for you?"

James Buchanan Barnes' lips curved in a half-smile. He was totally laughing at her. "You guys keep changing the menu," he pointed out. Briefly, his eyes flicked back up at the board. "Every time I'm in here, it's different."

What did she say to something like that? That video certainly had no tips about making smalltalk with the elite and beautiful.

"I'm new here," she said, hoping that was enough of an explanation for him.

James Buchanan Barnes nodded, seeming to accept her answer. "I'll just have a small, black coffee."

"Got it." Darcy punched buttons on the register, but nothing happened. Her face heating, she tried again to no avail. "I mentioned that I'm new, right?" she asked, going for it again.

"You did," he conceded.

There was that hint of laughter in his voice again. She was making such a fool of herself.

On the fourth try, the register dinged and opened. Darcy sighed with relief and turned her attention back to James Buchanan Barnes. He was almost smiling at her. God, her insides had entirely atrophied.

"$2.50," she said, throat shaking. Wait, was she supposed to give it to him for free? She was, wasn't she. "Never mind," she corrected quickly. "No, it's on the house."

James Buchanan Barnes took out his wallet despite her pleas. "I insist," he said, pulling out a tenner.

Darcy's quivering, sweaty hand grabbed at the note. She put it in the register and started counting out change.

"Keep it."

Darcy looked up, confused.

"The change," he explained, walking away, "keep it."

Nodding like an idiot, Darcy dropped the coins she had gathered and shut the register. James Buchanan Barnes took a seat at one of the bar stools near the entrance as Darcy prepared his drink. She could not believe what had just happened. Had he been flirting with her? Part of her felt he had been flirting. God, she wondered just how red her face was. Forget her face, her entire body. She bet she looked like some big-breasted tomato.

Oh, no wonder he had been flirting. She was used to guys paying her more attention because of her large chest. Why should it be any different with famous guys?

But she hadn't spotted him staring at anything below her neck.

Darcy, he's rich and famous. He flirts with everyone. It's basically half of his job to schmooze.

That made sense. James Buchanan Barnes made a living starring in films. To promote those films, he had to embark on press tours which included the dreaded interview clock in which journalists and YouTube stars alike rotated, asking the same questions over and over. He had been brought up in a world where he had to be nice to everybody. Even terrified baristas.

Good on him for remembering his manners.

Placing a strip of cardboard around the cup of small, black coffee, Darcy went around the counter and headed towards James Buchanan Barnes. As she walked, she was momentarily distracted by the bell dinging. When she recognised one of her coworkers coming back from their fifteen, she returned her attention to the task at hand. Unfortunately, she was a bit too late. James Buchanan Barnes had stood. Darcy gasped, seeing what was about to happen, knowing she could do absolutely nothing to stop the catastrophe.

Darcy Lewis, in all of her glory, collided with James Buchanan Barnes. Coffee flew in the air and landed over the two of them, dousing them in scalding liquid.

"Shit!" Darcy exclaimed. "I am so, so, so, so"—

—"Save it!" James Buchanan Barnes was angry. The sharpness of his tone nearly knocked Darcy to the floor. He growled as he bent to pick up the coffee cup. Crushing it in his hands, he shoved it in Darcy's chest. "Refund," he ordered. Darcy stood there, dripping and even more red than before. "Now!"

Hot, raging tears bubbled, but Darcy would not cry. Not here. Not in front of everybody. Especially not in front of fucking James Buchanan Barnes.

Retreating from the scene, she chucked the coffee cup in the bin and walked carefully towards the register. Obviously, the old machine felt sorry for her: it opened on her first try. She grabbed at the ten dollar bill, having to stop herself from squashing it in her fist, and walked back to the actor. He was drying himself off with some napkins. Only they were cheap and useless and were doing a good job of leaving white lint on his black clothes.

He grabbed at the note. "I should have you fired," he seethed.

"I don't think I need your help to get fired," she spat in response.

James Buchanan Barnes' eyes—which had entirely lost their softness from earlier—blossomed in surprise. Darcy bet people rarely talked back to him, but she was not one to go down without a fight.

The meathead actor was at a loss for words. He grumbled something unintelligible before straightening his jacket and storming out of the cafe. There weren't many other patrons that morning, but the three people sitting at various spots around the room all stared at her with their mouths hanging open.

Darcy was about to run into the back room and have a good cry, but she spotted James Buchanan Barnes' pristine leather wallet. Groaning, she snatched it and ran to chase after him. She caught up to him a few feet away from the café.

"You forgot this!" she called to him.

He swerved around, face contorted in rage. He snatched his wallet from her. "I'm not going to thank you."

"I'm not looking for any phrase that could be taken as gratitude. Don't worry."

"Good, because you're not going to get one."

"I didn't ask for one, so I don't really care."

There were no more words said between them. They turned on their heels and went their separate ways. Him in the direction of fame and glory, her in the direction of misery and minimum wage.

Darcy recalled this encounter every so often. Her coworkers loved to bring it up. The day Darcy Lewis verbally sparred with two-time Academy Award nominated actor James Buchanan Barnes. It was practically a historical event at Warner Bros. Latte. They all insist she won the exchange.

Loki hadn't fired her. She told him what had happened and offered him her apron, but he had laughed and refused to let her go. Three years on and they were now the best of friends. Roommates, even, along with another girl who worked at the café, Jane. They were all struggling actors grasping for any audition they could find.

Following her encounter with James Buchanan Barnes, Darcy had learned to not treat famous people any differently from other customers. Yes, she still had to offer up their orders free of charge, but other than that, they were regular people. It made her laugh how quickly she had become jaded. No longer were these actors rare butterflies that needed to be treated with the utmost care and affection. They were regular citizens to Darcy. Every so often, one would be thrown by her nonchalance and ask to see her manager, but Loki, no matter the person asking for Darcy's removal, would never fire her. And that was pretty damn great.

* * *

 

_That's all I remember,_

_Then everything's black_


	2. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is where things start to get really long. Also, Loki is gay in this.

_ Fast the moon approaches _

_ And with hungry eyes, _

_ We'll be lighting torches, _

_ We'll be mesmerised, _

_ I've been yearning for this _

_ All of my life _

In My Home | Young the Giant

* * *

**Part One | Don't You Know Who I Think I Am**

"It's not that I mind kissing women. You guys are great and always seem to have the softest lips imaginable. I'm only wondering why I have to kiss anyone in the first place. It's a commercial for jewellery, not chapstick."

Loki was driving with Darcy into work, complaining about a callback he had to get to after their shift. She didn't really understand his annoyance. He had a freaking callback. The third that month alone. Sure, they were just for commercials, but that was more than what she was getting.

How did he manage to find fault in everything? Were all English people like that?

"It's for Kay Jewellers, Loki."

Loki slowed the car as they reached the gate to the Warner Bros. lot. "What does that mean?"

"You know the slogan, don't you?" Darcy asked. They were let through and Loki drove them towards the café.

"What slogan?"

"Every kiss begins with Kay. That slogan. The slogan for Kay Jewellers," Darcy explained incredulously.

Loki eyed her, confused. "Every kiss begins with K? Yes, the word kiss does begin with K, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"I hope you realise what an idiot you are," Darcy deadpanned. "The company is called Kay Jewellers. It's a pun. Every kiss begins K - A - Y. That's why you're having to kiss a woman."

Darcy exited the vehicle just as Loki's face widened with realisation. He scrambled out of the car and chased after her.

"Darce," he shouted.

"What?"

She stopped just shy of reaching the front entrance. It looked to be a slow morning inside the shop, which was nice. Today was her three-year anniversary on the job. She didn't want an uncontrollable crowd of pompous customers ordering her around, reminding her just how much better off they were than her.

Loki reached her, panting like the skinny, out of shape actor boy that he was. He loomed over her. She hated when he did that. It was like he was rubbing his height in.

"So, I've got this callback after work," he said, sounding like a broken record. This callback had been mentioned numerous times since he got the call, mostly so he could complain about the whole having to kiss a woman thing. Darcy raised her eyebrow, wondering where this conversation was going. "And Jane is in Mexico with my brother. And your car is in the shop."

"Are you just stating facts, or is there a reason for all of this?"

"I'm going to need you to find a ride with somebody," Loki said quickly.

Wonderful. Just what she needed. As much as she enjoyed the company of some of her coworkers, Jane and Loki were the only ones she didn't mind outside of the café, and even they got on her nerves at least once or twice a week. That morning, for example, Loki had left disgusting bacon grease congealing in a pan. Vegetarian Darcy was not thrilled about having to clean that up while he showered, and she let him know as soon as he got out.

Still, she was happy for Loki. Despite how annoying it was that he kept getting callbacks, he was her best friend and there was no point in being jealous. She was no petty girl. Well, usually.

Rolling her eyes, Darcy grabbed the door handle to the café and swung it wide. "Fine," she said as she entered, Loki close behind. Before she got two feet inside, Loki's long arms wound around her from behind. He squeezed tightly. Everyone stared. "Loki, get off."

"No. You're amazing," he praised.

"I know, but people are looking at us funny."

Loki released her. They went behind the counter and into the back room where the scent of cinnamon buns (gluten and gluten-free; they were all-inclusive at Warner Bros. Latte) and English-style toasties assaulted Darcy's hungry nostrils. As she tied her apron around her neck, Darcy watched Loki squealing with the other workers about his callback. He didn't seem to mind having to kiss a woman now that he had grasped the point.

Most of her was beyond happy for her best friend. Not only was Loki a truly spectacular actor—she had seen him in play after play after play since they met, so she felt she was a good judge of his acting ability—but he was also one of the only people who had ever supported Darcy no matter what. She was difficult to get along with. Loud and unafraid to speak her mind, most people viewed Darcy as a stuck-up bitch they would rather avoid. Even some of their coworkers steered relatively clear of her. But never Loki. He was always by her side. Standing up for her when others thought she was in the wrong.

Which was shy she felt so awful about that other, teeny, tiny, minuscule portion of her that was angry and envious of Loki's budding success in the commercial world. Which she knew, because of how amazing he was, would blossom into a successful career in the television and film industry.

Darcy Lewis had been living in Los Angeles for three years now. She had been going in for auditions what felt like daily since she arrived. Her agent, Phil Coulson, was constantly finding parts for which she was supposedly "perfect". Yet, every time she showed up at one of those many auditions the fabulous Phil was able to nab, the directors inside that cold room rarely looked at her. She got out two of her lines before they shooed her away or decided to take a phone call in the middle of her audition.

They had their reasons, she knew. Sexist, outdated reasons. She was too curvy, for starters. Her hips were too wide—she hadn't been a size two since she was ten. And her breasts—they were their own story. She sometimes felt they were still growing. Plus, she was short and she had full lips and her stomach, while not overly protruding in any way, was not flat and muscular no matter how many hours she spent at the gym.

She was not Hollywood's idea of a leading lady. Or even McDonald's idea of a drooling, happy customer.

Thinking of these things stung. Knowing that part of the reason she was having such a hard time convincing people she belonged on screen was because of her genetic makeup was tortuous. She knew what all of those old, wealthy men were thinking as she stood before them delivering soliloquies in audition rooms—does she realise this isn't a casting couch audition?

One of her ex-boyfriends had once tried to get her into pinup photography. Just to get her name out there. He was single within a thirty seconds of the suggestion.

She was not going to be defined by her body. She refused to be. This was the 21st century. The century of inclusion and acceptance of people's differences. All she wanted was for people to see past her figure and recognise that she could be a marvellous addition to their project. Even if that project was nothing more than some mobile phone service.

She was a good actor. One day, hopefully, somebody aside from Phil Coulson would see that.

Besides, three years was perhaps two hours in Hollywood time. She understood that as well. Some actors spent literally their whole lives searching for fame and never achieving it. Many of them were probably better actors than her, who would work harder and longer and more efficiently. But none of that took away any of the pain she felt each time she was rejected. The dismissals gathered in the pit of her stomach; she carried them with her wherever she went.

Listening to Loki cheer himself on made that lump in her belly catch fire. God, she couldn't even get freaking McDonalds to give her a callback!

"Darce, did you hear?" One of their coworkers, Maria (thin, tall, and queen of television guest spots), came into the back room wearing her famous gossipy smile. She was their source of all of Hollywood's dirty secrets.

"About Loki's callback for Kay Jewellers? I think the whole world has," Darcy responded drily, eyeing Loki. He bit his lip and quieted. Everyone was ready to hear Maria's news.

Ignoring Darcy, Maria put her things down and took a deep breath. She was ever one for the dramatics. No wonder she seemed to only land auditions for crime shows. "James Buchanan Barnes is back in town and he's coming to the lot today!" she squealed.

Everyone behind Darcy joined in. They jumped. Fanned their faces. Wondered aloud if he was going to come into the café. Then, suddenly, everybody went silent and stared at Darcy. She felt their eyes on her back like crawling spiders.

So, James Buchanan Barnes was returning to the lot. He hadn't been to the Warner Bros. lot since that fateful day when she accidentally—but sometimes she liked to pretend it was on purpose—tipped scalding coffee all over him. Her coworkers joked constantly that he stayed away because of the trauma the spill had on his mind. He couldn't even think about coffee, they said. Smelling it set him off.

She knew better. His projects hadn't brought him to the lot. It was as simple as that. Until today, of course. She wondered why Maria was the only one who knew. Usually they were all up to date on the lot's schedule.

"Sorry, Darcy," Loki apologised. "It's just . . . you know, he's so . . . famous."

Shaking her head, Darcy had to fight her instinct to cry out all of the things she despised about James Buchanan Barnes. "Nope, I get it. He is very famous. You're allowed to like him." They all knew she was lying, of course. It was written plainly across her face and she knew it. But they were kind enough to not point it out.

"So, what's he doing here?" Loki was somehow even giddier than before. He had probably forgotten all about his callback in the excitement.

Maria was dating a Hollywood tabloid journalist, hence her inside scoop on all Hollywood matters. Her boyfriend continuously told her to not share any of the details he provided, but she was never very good at keeping quiet. She loved to gossip far too much. "It's a miniseries, guys! A period drama, set during the Vietnam War! He's here for all of the pre-production stuff. They start filming it next month!"

More squeals of excitement. Darcy wondered if anybody was even out at the register.

"He's playing this wounded soldier suffering from PTSD"—Ha! Surely her friends understood the irony—"who falls in love with a Vietnamese nurse. It'll be eight, hour-long episodes, following him from the moment he gets blown up to the wedding between him and this nurse! How exciting!"

"How cliché." Darcy's voice disrupted the celebrations. Everybody turned to face her, mouths opened in shock. She sighed. "Come on, guys. You have to admit that the world does not need another war drama about a soldier falling in love with a nurse."

"Darce, are you sure you're not lashing out at the project because of your hatred for James Buchanan Barnes?" Loki suggested calmly.

"I'm positive," she gritted, though it was most definitely part of the reason she was so against the plot. "I'm all for a gritty war film, like Fury or Saving Private Ryan or Full Metal Jacket. But yet another TV show romanticising war? No, thank you."

"Well, I am all for it," Loki stated. There were murmurs of agreement from the other workers.

"And that's your right. I accept that," Darcy allowed, though she was somewhat irrationally angry at her best friend for betraying her. Everybody dispersed, James Buchanan Barnes' name on their lips as they got back to work. Darcy went up to Loki. She opened her eyes wide and batted her eyelashes.

"What is it?"

"Could I please stay back here and be on sandwich duty?"

"Why? You're the best at working the register. Nobody else can get it to work for them as well as you."

Darcy frowned momentarily. What a thing to be remembered for. "Look, I just don't want James Buchanan Barnes to come in while I'm working up there. So, please, just let me stay behind the door. Please?"

"No," said Loki without a moment's hesitation.

Immediately, Darcy dropped the doe eyes. "What? Why not? Please, Loki. I don't want to run the risk of seeing that ass again."

"Need I remind you what happened last time you were put in charge of sandwiches?"

No. He did not need to remind her.

Last time Darcy made sandwiches for the front was during a busy lunch hour. In a rush, she had managed to slice into her finger. Blood went everywhere. Maria, who had been helping her at the time, passed out from the sight of the blood and suffered a mild concussion.

"It was an accident," Darcy defended. An accident that resulted in five stitches, but still. An accident all the same.

Loki laughed in disbelief. "You required stitches! We had to close the entire café so they could disinfect the kitchen. I love you, Darcy, truly. You're the best friend anybody could ever have. But you and knives just do not mix. I'm sorry, but I've got to leave you up at the front. Besides, you hate working with meat. I'm helping your morals by refusing your request."

If she didn't also love Loki and believe he was the best friend anybody could ever have, she wouldn't have thought twice about arguing her case until he allowed her to stay in the back. She knew—and he knew—they would never reach a compromise. Loki was the only person in the entire world capable of getting Darcy to back down. Thankfully, he rarely used his powers, and when he did it was always for Darcy's benefit. Even if she didn't think so at the time.

Annoyed and slightly fearful of the possibility of seeing James Buchanan Barnes, Darcy stuck her tongue out at Loki and stepped through the doorway, taking her place at the register.

It was a slow day. Either nobody wanted coffee, or everyone on the lot was too busy to get it. Darcy relaxed about two hours into her shift. Nobody mentioned the dreaded J word, nor the two B words that followed, and she had started, as her fourth hour drew to a close and her half-hour break reared its beautiful head, to forget that he-who-must-not-be-named was in the vicinity. That was, of course, before the bell above the entrance to the café dinged as Darcy began untying her apron. She looked up, fury seeping into her veins.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Exactly what she needed.

He walked through the doorway. He was dressed in almost the same outfit he had been the day they met, only this time he looked considerably more stupid and also his hat was a deep grey, not black.

Following his outburst, Darcy had run through thousands of different scenarios involving their reunion. Three years had gone by and still each night she imagined confronting him. Mostly they ended with him being at a loss for words, his eyes bulging at her cleverness and wit. Two had somehow managed to culminate in a quick make out session, but she blamed those on her sex-depraved mind getting ahead of itself.

Funny and so very human that despite all of the practice, all of the rehearsals, all of the pent-up anger towards a man she only knew through tabloids and one brief, unpleasant encounter, Darcy had no idea what to say when James Buchanan Barnes finally reached the counter. Three-year-old, bitter resentment was acting as some form of inhibiter.

Darcy's arms were in the air, her fingers attached to the strings holding up her apron. She dropped them and balled her hands. Her nails bit into her palms.

As he scanned the menu on the wall behind her like he had done three years ago to the day (God, what if this turned into some sort of tradition? She couldn't live with that.), oblivious to the look of pure rage flaming on her face, she wondered if he recognised her.

Hopefully he did. Most likely didn't. It had been a significant day for her, the day she realised some stars really could be the scum of the earth, but it was probably just another Monday for him. Yell at some poor barista on her first day for accidentally spilling coffee on you? Check.

Twenty seconds had passed since he approached the register. By this time she was supposed to have asked what he wanted. Edge him along, make small talk until he decided. She was the only one up front at the moment. Nobody would know she wasn't following protocol.

"You change the menu every time I come in here." James Buchanan Barnes had lowered those ugly, designer, aviator sunglasses in which Darcy could see her own frustrated reflection. She was fully aware he had said basically the same thing last time. "When will you stop doing that?"

That part was new.

"When we go out of business," Darcy theorised. She smiled widely, the fake sort of smile she was so good at putting on. His eyebrows pulled ever so slightly together. Was there a flicker of recognition running across his face? She blinked, and it was gone. "Now, what can I get you?"

Please don't say black coffee, please don't say black coffee, please don't say black coff—

—"Black coffee, please. Small."

Shit.

Darcy punched some buttons on the register. It protested. She punched the buttons harder.

"Oh," he said, startling Darcy, "and one of those blueberry scones." He pointed to the display. One final blueberry scone stood amongst the crowd of forlorn orange scones.

Darcy added the blueberry scone to the order. "Will that be all, sir?" The sir slipped out. She wished it was possible to swallow words from existence.

James Buchanan Barnes didn't seem to mind the slip up. The edges of his mouth—which, she noted, was a rather thin mouth—snapped up. "That's all," he confirmed.

"All right. Your total is," Darcy said, squinting at an imaginary screen, "nothing."

She lifted her eyes, hoping to find that smile wiped from his face. Alas, it was bigger. He was waving a ten dollar note in front of her face.

"I insist."

He most certainly had these lines rehearsed. Granted, she did too, but what was with his coffee shop talk? What was the point? Make a girl feel special for a couple of seconds? Pretend he was not such an asshole?

Darcy had heard this speech before. She was over it.

"Dude, I'm supposed to give you this stuff for free. This way, if you hate everything, you can't demand your money back." Maybe that would jog his memory.

It didn't. He winked and shoved the tenner into the empty tip jar before turning on his heel and sitting at a two-seater table by the door.

Ripping James Buchanan Barnes' receipt from the machine and crumpling it in her fist, Darcy took a moment to calm herself down. When she was sure she wouldn't pour the bottle of hand sanitiser next to the coffee machine into his order, Darcy started brewing a fresh pot of coffee for the café's very own Vietnam War vet.

Loki exited the back room. He came over to her as she was placing James Buchanan Barnes's scone on a plate.

"This is the last blueberry scone," she said to him. She sounded enraged even to her own ears. She must learn to tone it down somehow.

Loki took a step back. "Who spit in your coffee this morning?"

"That asshole over there," she hissed, jerking her head in the direction of the source of her agony.

Loki gasped. Actually gasped. Like a schoolboy who had just found a dollar on the playground. "That's James Buchanan Barnes," he said. He sounded as though his mouth was open, like he physically could not close it.

Rolling her eyes, Darcy poured the coffee into a to-go cup. "Yeah. Let's remember he tried to have me fired last time he was in here. To which you refused."

"I remember, I remember," he insisted. "I know you're still holding onto the encounter, but seeing him in the flesh. My God, he's even more attractive in person. I didn't think that was possible. What I wouldn't give to be able to press him against the window and"—

Darcy screwed her face in disgust. She shoved Loki to the side. "Get out of my way, pervert. I need to give him his order."

Loki trapped her in his grip before she could make an escape. "Did he remember you?"

"Of course he didn't. Though, I kind of want to purposefully pour this drink on him. You know, for old time's sake."

"As your boss and your friend, I would not recommend that."

Darcy pouted at Loki, retreating from behind the counter and towards where James Buchanan Barnes sat. She was careful to watch him the entire time. She hadn't realised how tense she was until she reached him without any spills.

"Your drink," she said, placing the cup in front of him. He eyed her curiously, but she ignored him. She slid the plate beside the coffee. "And your scone. Have a nice day."

"Thank you. And you," he said. There was that almost-smile again. She bet all of the ladies fell at his feet when he smiled at them like that. She was proud of her ability to see through it. "I hope you have a nice day."

Nodding mainly out of confusion—really, how could he not remember her? Also, why the hell was he so good at pretending to be nice? Actor, Darcy. He's a freaking actor. It's his job to pretend—Darcy turned away and headed back for the register.

Loki was still there. He stared at her in utter shock. "He's in love with you," he said. "He is so in love with you."

"What?" Darcy untied her apron and folded it, hanging it by the wall of different coffee beans.

"James Buchanan Barnes," Loki said, holding Darcy by the hands, "he is in love with you. How can you not see it?"

Darcy squinted. "Are you high? You know I don't mind you getting high at home, but at work, Loki? You should know better."

"I'm not high. I've just witnessed true love. I'm in a daze."

"Yeah, that guy does not love me. You're not in a daze, you're crazy. He puts that nice front on for everybody. Trust me, he likes that scone ten times more than he likes me."

Loki followed her out for her half-hour, droning on and on about how James Buchanan Barnes was in love. He could tell. He was psychic like that, or something. Darcy was only half-listening. Apparently, there was something in the way he looked at her. But she had seen him look at plenty of women like that in the films he starred in.

Her best friend would not listen to reason, though. He was convinced one day she and one of the most talked about, famous actors in the world would get it on.

Literally James Buchanan Barnes' only redeeming quality was his ability to not stare at her chest. And the money he donated to charities, but that was besides the point. Beyond the whole boob thing, Darcy was just as convinced he was an ass as Loki was convinced he was a god.

By the time Darcy's break was finished, James Buchanan Barnes had left the café—thank the Lord—and it was time for Loki to head out. All of their coworkers wished him luck with his callback. He got teary-eyed, which meant he also got blotchy. Darcy forced him out of the building at that point. He could go downhill very fast.

Two hours and thirty minutes later and Darcy's shift was finally complete. Three years she had been waiting for that encounter to occur and she was immensely disappointed in her inability to verbally attack the smug actor. She had everything prepared. Everything. It only made sense she let her opportunity slip right though her fingers.

"Bye, Darce!" Maria called as she exited the café dressed for a date night. Black dress, black heels, blistering red lipstick. What a killer.

"Don't have too much fun," Darcy warned halfheartedly.

Maria laughed. "I'm making no promises."

Darcy sighed, watching Maria's slender body disappear inside her seventy-thousand dollar Audi. Nobody from work had been able to give her a ride. Fortunately it was a breezy spring evening. The sun was approaching the trees that lined the lot. She didn't mind waiting a bit for the only person willing to come pick her up.

Feeling a vibration coming from her purse, Darcy snatched her phone from its special pocket and answered. "Loki! How's it going?"

"I haven't even been seen yet. There are so many people here. Long hair seems to be in. Why did I let you talk me into getting my hair cut?" He sounded very much in distress. "Darcy, I think I'm gonna be sick."

Loki got like this before every audition. It was especially more severe before callbacks. She knew just how to calm his nerves. "Loki, everything is going to be okay," she soothed. She heard footsteps approaching her from the right, but shrugged them off as belonging to a crew member. They usually waited for their vehicles to be valeted right outside the café. "You are amazing and talented and if they do not pick you, they deserve to die."

"Yeah. Yes, they do deserve to die, don't they?"

"Exactly. Go get 'em, tiger."

"Rawr!"

"No, don't do that. That's weird. That will definitely not get you the job. That might actually get you arrested."

"Sorry," he said quietly, embarrassed.

"Let's just not mention that you ever went rawr like some deranged tiger and get on with our lives. Sound like a plan?"

"Sounds like a plan. Bye, Darce. Love you."

"You, too, Tiger. That is your nickname now, by the way."

Darcy was laughing as she hung up, aware that those footsteps had stopped just shy of reaching her. As she returned her phone to her purse, she made sure she had brought her mace with her. Feeling the bottle calmed her a little bit and gave her the bravery required to look over her shoulder at the figure standing next to her.

A few feet away stood none other than motherfucking James Buchanan Barnes. He was browsing his phone. Illuminated by the glaring blue light, his face appeared harsher, angry, like it had when he demanded she be fired. But then he clicked his phone off, and his face transformed back into how it always looked when she saw it splattered on billboards and magazines: Perfect.

His blue eyes flicked up, catching hers briefly before she turned her body away in shame.

He had totally caught her staring at him.

"Waiting for a ride?"

Was he trying to make small talk with her? Darcy craned her neck to the side. He was looking at her straight on. Brave. "Me? Are you . . . me?"

He laughed softly, like he wasn't the biggest jerk she had ever had the displeasure of meeting. "Yeah, I'm talking to you." He looked up at the smog-filled sky. They could never see any stars on the lot. "So, are you? Waiting for a ride, that is."

"Yeah," she croaked. Damn it, be calm, Darcy. You've trained for this moment. Just casually bring up how much you hate him. You can do it. "So, how often do you work on the lot? I haven't seen you around."

James Buchanan Barnes put his hands in his jean pockets. Darcy noticed a silver chain glinting in the fading sunlight. Dog tags. "I don't come here often," he admitted, "I do love it here, though. My first film was shot just across the street when I was only six months old."

" _Winter Baby_ ," Darcy mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing. When was the last time you were here?" Good job, Darce. You're getting to him.

Somehow, James Buchanan Barnes had moved closer to her without her realising. He was standing no more than five feet from her. It was probably just her imagination, but she swore she could smell him. He smelled like the sky right before it was about to rain. Like sunshine breaking through grey clouds.

The actor clicked his tongue. The barista blinked, the spell she had been put under vanishing.

"I think it was roughly three years ago," he said, sounding deep in thought.

"Go on," Darcy prodded, noticing that without his baseball cap his hair was gloriously mussed. The dark strands flopped every which way. Stop it! Stop it right this instant! He's setting the stage for your verbal assault.

"Yeah, three years ago. I was finishing up some reshoots for a film. _Porter's Civil War_. Did you see it?"

He was even closer now. Four feet away. "I did. I think everyone did. Three Oscar nods, one win for best costume design. Not bad." She may have hated him, but she would be stupid to deny he made great films. Besides, he died in that one. She felt justified in watching it. The first time. The two other times were total failures on her part. "But anyway, what do you remember from that day? Walk me through it."

She was being obvious. Too obvious. James Buchanan Barnes was starting to look at her like maybe she wasn't entirely sane. None of that mattered, however, as the headlights belonging to her ride blinded them both before he could respond.

"That's me," she said with a flashing false smile. "Have a great life, James Buchanan Barnes." Darcy approached the vehicle. The driver bibbed the horn, startling her. "Cut it out, Carlton," she hissed.

Too late. He had gotten out of the car. "Baby, I knew you'd take me back. I just knew—hey, is that James Buchanan Barnes! Hey, can I get your autograph?"

Darcy went around the car and shoved him back in the driver's seat. "I am not taking you back. You were the only person who would give me a ride," she said as she slammed the door. Straightening, Darcy went to the passenger side and stared at Hollywood's ideal for a leading man. "He's an ass," she commented by way of apology. She opened the car and climbed inside.

Carlton turned the car around. He drove past James Buchanan Barnes, letting off another wail of the horn. Darcy locked eyes with the actor. A gentle shiver ran through her as he watched her through the car window, his annoyingly handsome (but still stupid) face looking like it had when he did an ad for Calvin Klein underwear, but she shrugged it off as a reaction to Carlton's blasting AC.

Dropping her off outside her apartment building, Carlton shouted something about his eternal love for her as he sped away going at least twenty over the limit. She felt for all of the other drivers on the road. Darcy climbed the steps of her rundown apartment complex (which had no working elevator currently), saying hello to a few neighbours on her way up to the fifteenth floor.

"He's an ass, kind of like you! That's what I should have said," she exclaimed, reaching her door. Miss Friday, an elderly woman who walked with a cane and had not been able to leave the complex since the elevator broke down last week, looked at Darcy curiously. "Sorry, Miss Friday. Just talking to myself."

She quickly opened the door and escaped the uncomfortable atmosphere. The apartment she shared with Loki and Jane was not much. Yes, it was three bedrooms in Los Angeles, but it was still cheap enough for three mostly-out-of-work actors to afford. Bad part of town, absent landlord, and jittery pipes. Still, it was home. The three of them made it work.

Darcy plopped on the plush couch Jane had found one day at a sale on the lot. It was the sofa used in some failed TV show. The set designer had been a genius. Nearly half of their apartment was furnished with stuff from that glorified yard sale. Sergeant Tibbs joined her not too long after she sat down, curling in her lap. He jumped away moments later when her phone began to vibrate.

Phil. He only called when she had an audition.

"Hello?"

"Darcy? It's Phil."

"I know. Phil, you need to stop announcing yourself every time you call someone. We all have caller ID now. Welcome to the 21st century."

"I'll get on that, but first, I have some big news. You have an audition for a guest spot on a TV show!"

Darcy leaped off of the sofa. Sergeant Tibbs scrambled out of the way. "What! For what show?"

"It's not filming yet. It's for this new mini series starring none other than James Buchanan Barnes! It'd be half a day's work, a couple of lines. You'd be a nurse interested in this wounded soldier character Barnes'll be playing. The audition's next week!"

Darcy was not so excited anymore.

"Darcy? Have you passed out?"

She rubbed her eyes, crumbling her mascara. "No, Phil, I'm still here."

"You don't sound so thrilled. It's a good opportunity, Darcy. I know it isn't much, but think about it. You've not been able to get a single commercial role and maybe it's because you're better suited to jump right into television. I have faith in you, Darcy Lewis. Otherwise I wouldn't be your agent."

Were Loki with her, he would have been slapping her right about now for even thinking about Phil's offer. He would answer for her. A big Y-E-S, Phil. Of course she'll go in. He'd done that before.

If the roles were reversed, if it were Loki unwilling to take a job because of a beef with another actor, Darcy would convince him to do it.

She had to do it. For herself and nobody else. She would push aside her hatred of James Buchanan Barnes in the hopes of furthering her career. Besides, she doubted she would actually manage to get the job.

"Okay," she said.

"You'll do it?" Phil's voice rose an octave.

Darcy sat back down on the sofa. Sergeant Tibbs jumped in her lap immediately. "Yeah, I'll do it."

"Great. Excellent! I'll send the script over immediately. Bye for now!"

Darcy scratched her cat's ears, watching his grey fur drift in the air. She ended the call, unsure of what she had just gotten herself into.

* * *

_Well, I know I was born for this_

_ Every night I dreamt of it _


	3. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million times over, thank you for the love. This is such a happy story for me to write. Enemies to lovers is a favourite trope of mine. I hope I do it (and the lovely characters involved) justice. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_You won't be telling all the lies when I'm gone,_

_And you know it's for show_

_Everybody holds on to something,_

_And you can't hide me_

_Your Side | Young the Giant_

* * *

**Part Two | Headfirst Slide**

* * *

Darcy was five when she decided she wanted to pursue acting. It was all her mother's fault. She encouraged Darcy's theatrics to no end, laughing whenever Darcy threw tantrums or reacted dramatically to being told _no_. Recognising her ability to put on a performance, she would sit young Darcy in front of the TV and play any old film. Classics were loved by the both of them, but not necessary for their mother-daughter movie nights. They watched everything they could get their hands on. Foreign language films, silent films, musicals, independent dramas with budgets so low the actors could only have been working on the project because they felt it was an important piece of cinematic art.

Her mother swooned over Rick Blaine as much as over Donnie Darko.

Of course, when asked by people what got her interested in acting Darcy would always shrug and say _Audrey Hepburn_. It made things easier. Nobody would go _awwww_ for an obscenely long time if she listed good ol' Audrey as the woman who gave her the acting bug. Nobody would proceed to ask too many personal questions Darcy was in no mood to answer.

Audrey's name led to a nod of understanding. Nothing more.

Occasionally, she wished her mother had been into tennis. Or maybe math. If she had been, Darcy wouldn't be a struggling actress incapable of getting callbacks. She also wouldn't be standing in front of Loki, who was in the middle of doing his best—which wasn't saying _anything_ ; his American accent sucked as bad as her English accent—James Buchanan Barnes impression.

"Come on, I feel like you're not even trying."

"Of course I'm not even trying! You sound so ridiculous, I can't take anything you're saying seriously. Drop the accent and maybe I'll try a little harder."

"Harrumph."

Darcy's mouth popped open with a laugh. "Did you actually just _say_ the word _harrumph_ to convey your annoyance? Wow, you surprise me with how English you are sometimes."

"I am English," Loki defended.

"Yeah, and sometimes it's glaringly obvious."

"What's wrong with me being English? You love England!"

Uh-oh. If she got Loki defending England to her—which happened more often than one might think—she could wind up listening to him for hours. He was very devoted to his home country. "Nothing's wrong with you being English, buddy. It was only a joke. A stupid, out of line joke for which I apologise sincerely."

Loki nodded his head as if her apology were one-hundred percent necessary. "I'm going to go work on my accent for a minute in the bathroom and then we can get back to work."

"Got it. I'll grab us some drinks."

Watching as Loki snuck off to the bathroom with her precious script, Darcy smiled to herself and went to the kitchen. Small though it was, it housed enough booze and food to keep her and Loki and Jane alive. She reached into the liquor cabinet and snagged some gin before turning around and pulling out a bottle of tonic water from the fridge. She mixed two G and Ts while she waited for her annoyingly helpful friend to return from the toilet.

Phil had kept his promise and sent her the script for James Buchanan Barnes' new miniseries the day after his phone call. Ever since, Loki had been begging Darcy to help her learn her lines. She didn't fully understand why he was so desperate to run lines with her. She only had five sentences in the one episode she would be starring in should she be lucky enough—or the casting directors be idiotic enough—to get the part.

The script they provided her was, truthfully, really well written. A little too similar to _Miss Saigon_ , but she appreciated the heaviness of the show's tone. It wasn't afraid of bringing to light the horrors of war while being delicate enough for TV audiences. Following the end of the first episode, there would not be a dry eye sitting in front of their television. She was sure of that. She had a tough time getting Loki to stop sobbing after she'd lent the script to him the night before. _It's just so beautifully tragic!_ was his catchphrase for the show.

Darcy dropped some ice into the tumblers and garnished the rim with a lime wedge. Returning to the lounge, she took a large gulp of her drink as she heard the bathroom door open. The alcohol burned nicely on its way down. Loki came into the room, reaching out for his drink.

"This is very English," he commented, observing the concoction. The drink sloshed as he turned the glass around.

"It is. Hence why I made it. To prove to you that I do, in fact, love England."

Loki stared her down. "Because it's the best country in the world."

"Because it's the best country in the world," Darcy agreed.

Satisfied with her concession, Loki set his drink on the coffee table and opened the script to the marked pages. He puffed out his chest. Darcy had to hold in another burst of laughter. "Should I be lying down, do you think? I'm wounded." Loki squinted at the booklet. "It says here I'm in a hospital bed. I'll use the sofa."

"Can we do this facing each other?" Darcy asked. Sergeant Tibbs was sleeping comfortably on the sofa and he could get scratchy if disturbed. "Please? The casting director isn't going to be lying down. It'll just confuse me to rehearse like this."

Thankfully, Loki agreed with her. "Right! That is very true." He turned away from the sofa and approached Darcy. "Are you ready?"

While she did find it somewhat annoying, Darcy was beginning to love how seriously her best friend took this audition. He had always been supportive, but it was very rare that Darcy appreciated his dedication to getting her a proper acting job. "As I'll ever be. Come on," she goaded, "hit me."

"Okay, okay." Loki cleared his throat. " _Hue. Where is Hue_?"

That bathroom study session had done him some good. His American accent had improved. Darcy was impressed. " _She's gone for the night, baby, is there anything I can do for you_?" Darcy despised the excessive use of the word _baby_ in this scene. In all honesty, she kind of despised this character. She reminded Darcy of Jessica Rabbit, only less appealing and—somehow—more sexual.

" _No, no, I need Hue_."

" _Like I said, baby, Hue's not here. But I am, and I am willing to provide any service you require_." There was meant to be some inappropriate touching at this point, but Darcy had convinced Loki during their first run through to skip on the actions.

" _I said_ , no."

" _Shhh, baby, you're weak. You don't wanna wake the others_."

" _If you don't get off of me_ , _I will not think twice about knocking you to the ground_."

" _Don't say things you don't mean_."

" _I am being very serious_. _Get away from me_. _Now_."

" _Fine, but don't expect me to make you feel better when Hue runs back to her man_."

Loki closed the script with a flourish. "And . . . scene. You did an excellent job, Darce. If they don't give you the job, I'm filing a complaint. You're perfect for the role."

Taking a seat on the sofa beside her cat, Darcy lifted her drink to her lips and stroked Sergeant Tibbs' ears. She laid her head against the back cushion and stared up at the ceiling, noticing a new stain she hoped was not mould. "Do you say that because I'm such an amazing actor, or because I'm as horrid as this character?"

Loki sat beside her. "What are you talking about?"

Darcy lifted her head and took another sip. "Phil was so convinced I was perfect for this role. You seem convinced as well. I'm starting to think it's because I remind you both of this harlot."

Loki eyed Darcy with a comforting softness to his blue eyes. "Darce, I know you're insecure about your body. We all are, and unfortunately I've got no big tips on how to instantaneously become more comfortable in your own skin. But, what I can say is while you were probably thought of for this part because of your . . . what shall we call it? . . . ample bosom, you are so much more than that. You are Darcy Lewis, my best friend. Maker of the best gin and tonics in the world!" He lifted his glass for Darcy and they cheers-ed. "Really, Darce, you're wonderful. You're an amazing actress. These guys will see that."

Loki was always reminding Darcy how shitty a friend she was. She couldn't have thought of that inspirational speech if Jane had come running to her, weeping about body issues.

"Thank you, Loki. That's probably the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me."

"That's incredibly sad."

"Well, I am incredibly sad," she pointed out. "Let's not forget, though, that if I do magically get this job, I will have to work with James Buchanan Barnes. Not only that, but I will have to climb all over him and be all flirtatious."

Loki rolled his eyes. "You're not still trying to convince me you hate him, are you?"

"Do you need convincing? I hate him. It's as simple as that," she insisted, wishing she hadn't brought up Mr. JBB in front of Loki. He had this big idea that—

—"You're meant to be, Darcy. This will be a good way to get your foot in the door."

"The acting door. Not the James Buchanan Barnes door. I would like to stay very far away from that door."

Leaning over her, Loki smushed his lips together. "You love him," he teased. "And he loves you."

"Piss off!" Darcy said, laughing. She pushed Loki away.

He wasn't done yet. "And you'll get married and have lots of sex and babies!"

Darcy, still overcome with laughter, furrowed her brow. "A _Love Actually_ reference?"

"I couldn't resist."

"You remember Carl and Sarah don't end up together, don't you?"

Loki's face fell. "Shit. You're right. Never mind." He took a long gulp of his drink. Putting his glass down, he snapped his fingers. "You'll be like the porn stars."

"They weren't porn stars, dummy. They were body doubles. Either way, no. The only _Love Actually_ couple James Buchanan Barnes and I will be emulating will be Rowan Atkinson's annoying jewellery salesman and Alan Rickman's cheating bastard."

"Jewellery!" Loki coughed, a spritz of alcohol flying from his tongue. "I forgot I'm filming tomorrow morning. I've got to get to bed."

Darcy checked the time on the cable box. It was only a quarter past eight. Loki picked up his and Darcy's empty tumblers and took them to the kitchen. He passed by her on the way to his room seconds later.

"Sleep well, sweet prince," Darcy said, blowing him a kiss.

He captured it and placed it on his cheek. "And you, my princess."

As Loki shut his door, Darcy found herself missing Jane. Whenever Loki had filming to get done—which always meant an early bedtime—she and Jane would go out. Watch a movie, go to a bar, run around looking for outdoor film sets. Anything to pass the time and enjoy each other's company. But no, she was off in Mexico getting loved up by Loki's bulky big brother.

Ew.

She now had an unpleasant image in her mind.

Darcy shook her head in an effort clear her brain and looked over at the kitchen. Another consequence of Loki turning in early was the washing up. The three roommates had a simple rotating system and that night it was meant to be Loki's job. Would she be cruel and drag him out of bed? No. He had been so good to her these last few days. More accurately, these last few years. The least she could do was clean the dishes and wipe down the countertops. Darcy picked up the television remote and headed for the kitchen. Their open apartment meant she could watch something while she painstakingly rinsed plates and stacked the dishwasher.

She switched on the TV. Immediately, her eyes and ears were assaulted. Quickly turning down the volume, Darcy was seconds away from changing the channel when an annoyingly familiar face flashed on the screen. James Buchanan Barnes, in the flesh. She recognised the film now. _The Mad Hatter_ , an _Alice in Wonderland_ spinoff that won him a SAG award, a People's Choice Award, a Teen Choice Award, _and_ a BAFTA nomination a couple of years ago. Anger seeped into her veins as she watched the actor running around wearing a silly top hat. She turned off the TV out of spite and started up the tap.

Midway through ridding the first plate of its contents, she grabbed the remote and pressed the power button once more. Christ, she was weak.

And damn him if he wasn't excellent at his job.

* * *

Nobody looked like her. At all. She stood out like a sore thumb.

This was both a blessing and a curse. On the plus side, she would stand out. But on the much more negative side, with all of these skinny girls with boobs the size of peanuts she wasn't sure standing out was such a good thing. Did Phil know somebody working on this project? Looking at the other actors, who were taller and thinner and more graceful than her, she had to admit how strange it was that Phil thought she was perfect the role. Stranger still that she managed to snag the audition in the first place, considering her lack of a resume.

She was sat between two confident-looking women who were both on their cell phones. Why had she brought a book to the audition? She wasn't going to be reading. Even still, simply holding _The Wizard of Oz_ calmed her. She didn't need to be reading it for it work its magic.

"Oh my God, I didn't know they turned it into a book!" One of the girls beside Darcy reached out and grabbed ahold of _The Wizard of Oz_. Her mouth slid open in shock. Instinctively, she reached out for it, but the thief was too tall. She glared. "This is my favourite movie, you know," the model-turned-actress—Darcy didn't _know_ , but she assumed. Was it sexist and against her core feminist beliefs? Yes. But nobody touched _The Wizard of Oz_ and came away unscathed—explained in a high-pitched voice that rang in Darcy's ears.

"No, I didn't _know_ ," Darcy said, snatching the precious book back.

The girl touched Darcy's arm delicately, as if afraid of her cat hair littered t-shirt. Clearly she was not aware that Darcy's death glare was code for _please stop talking to me_. "When did they make into a book?"

Wow. Darcy could not believe the question she was being asked. Sure, not everyone was as up to date on which films—especially classics like _The Wizard of Oz_ —were books first, but this person wanted to be an actor. Was there not a code? Or, at least, a legally binding document they had to sign when they got their SAG cards that detailed what vital pieces of film and literature history they needed to know?

Apparently not.

Darcy's face pinched. God, she was a snob.

"The book came first, actually," Darcy said, surprised at the level tone of her voice. The woman's face expanded in disbelief. "Yep. L. Frank Baum published this sucker in 1900, a full thirty-nine years before Judy Garland got her paws on it."

The door to the audition room opened, saving Darcy from the woman's response. Out popped another woman several inches taller—of course—than Darcy alongside an assistant whose eyes were glued to the clipboard in her hand. Darcy was overcome with a crippling fear. She was afraid she wouldn't be able to move if her name were called next.

 _Please not me, please not me, please not me_ , she chanted in her mind. She wasn't ready. She had been distracted by the girl who didn't know that _The Wizard of Oz_ was a book long before it was adapted into a God-awful movie.

"Um . . ." the assistant scanned the clipboard. "Darcy Lewis," she said without even bothering to look up.

Was it too late to turn back?

"Darcy Lewis?"

Yes, yes it was.

Darcy squeezed the arms of her chair before heaving herself up. "Right here," she mumbled, tucking her book inside of her bag and sliding it beneath the seat of the chair. She reluctantly followed the assistant into the cold audition room. _For you, Phil. I'm doing this for you_.

The young actress stepped out from behind the assistant, hoping to wow the room with her entrance. But she was Darcy Lewis, and she would not be Darcy Lewis if she did not make a huge fool of herself in front of the people who could potentially give her the job that would awaken the world to her talent. So, instead of managing to properly weave her way around the assistant, she caught her foot on the heel of the woman's stiletto—who wore those things in such a crowded space?—and smacked directly into the ground.

Her chin grazed the old, disgusting carpet. Pain shot through her skull. That would definitely leave a mark.

There were gasps of concern and at least two—but maybe it was three—bursts of laughter from the table at the back end of the small room. The assistant knelt by Darcy's splayed figure and asked if she was okay. She seemed actually worried, which was nice, but there was also a flash of pity, like she knew Darcy had just blown this whole deal.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," she insisted, getting to her feet. She wobbled slightly. Her chin burned. Darcy looked around the room, dazed. "Should I just get into it?"

Might as well try to blow them all away with her acting skills. Though she had the strangest feeling they were not going to take her seriously after her fumble.

The man at the centre of the table nodded, hiding a smile behind his hand. "Yeah, let's start from the top of the scene."

A camera was set up beside the table. A red light blinked, burning Darcy's eyes. She was surprised she wasn't crying yet out of embarrassment and pain. But then she was never very good at being embarrassed, and she could manage pain. She had suffered much worse before.

The man who had spoken—Darcy took a shot in the dark and named him the casting director—peered at a stack of papers on the table. Darcy spotted all of the resumes from all of the other girls auditioning for this role. The pressure built inside of her as the throbbing in her chin ebbed.

" _Hue. Where is Hue?_ "

Shit, were they starting now? Darcy could tell this guy wasn't an actor. His delivery was awful. It was throwing her off.

"D'um, uh . . ." _Well, double_ merde. This was going swimmingly. Darcy wracked her brain for her line—it was easy to remember, she knew that much—but it refused to appear. "Sorry," she said, wincing. "Can we start over?"

She knew you didn't request a redo during auditions, but with how horribly this was going she hoped the snotty people at the table would have some sympathy.

The casting director looked her up and down. "Darcy Lewis, right?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Phil told me you would be up for this."

So, this was a favour. That did nothing to boost her confidence.

"I am," she insisted. If Phil pulled strings to get here, the least she could do was pay him back by actually auditioning. "Please, I promise I'm in the right head space."

He nodded his head. "Okay. Let's do this. _Hue_. _Where is Hue_?"

**. . .**

Warner Bros. Latte was packed when Darcy arrived following her audition. Crew members for three different projects were on break. She squeezed through the crowd, asking herself why she didn't just use the back door, and got to the back room to drop off her stuff and put on her apron. Maria was at a panini press, stuffing pre-made sandwiches inside the machine. Everyone else was at the front, too busy to notice Darcy as she slid by them.

As Darcy was tying her apron, Maria turned away from the panini press. She grinned at Darcy. "So? How did it go?"

Darcy made a scratchy noise in the back of her throat. "I don't know." That was a lie. She did know how it went. Poorly. It went poorly. She fell into the room and then asked to start over once the audition began. She didn't think it would matter how well she did after they agreed to her request. She still royally screwed up.

"That badly, huh?"

"What?"

Maria opened the panini-making machine and carefully took out the freshly made sandwich. "We're all actors here, Darce," she said, waving her hand around the room even though they were the only ones there. "I've been to enough auditions to know what _I don't know_ means."

A response was on the tip of Darcy's dry tongue, but the door to the back room burst open and in strode Loki midway through taking off his apron. His shift must have just finished. Spotting Darcy, he stopped in his tracks. He picked her up and whirled her around the kitchen as well as he could with the limited space, setting her down before they could crash into anything.

Darcy spat hair out of her face.

"Oh, how was it? Did they give you the job right then and there?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Darcy spotted Maria running her finger across her throat in an effort to stop Loki from talking. Darcy wanted to get mad, but Maria told no lies. It was a cutthroat world, and Darcy's blood had been spilt.

"What happened?" Loki asked, gripping her upper arms. Darcy tensed. "Did they ignore you?"

"No, no, they were actually really receptive," Darcy commended. She pinched her face in remembrance. "It's just . . . I think that when I fell into the audition room it was the wrong kind of receptive."

Loki moved his long arms around her and squeezed. Maria came and joined them, the scent of disgusting ham coating her hands. Darcy fully accepted the hug. After that audition, she was in need of some TLC.

They let go of each other a few moments later when someone from the front asked for Darcy to help out with the register. It had started acting up, and as everyone knew, Darcy was the register whisperer. She said goodbye to Loki, promising they could eat ice cream and talk about his upcoming audition for a series of commercials when she got home from her shift. Then she headed out into the café, crossing her fingers she wouldn't have to deal with any shitty customers.

Several hours later, Maria came out of the back room and stood beside her. The café was empty. It was rarely this quiet. Darcy liked it. Although she adored chaos sometimes—she was somehow able to think clearly whenever there was a ton of background noise—it was nice to be surrounded by silence every once in a while.

"Your shift ended forty minutes ago," Maria noted, checking her fancy watch. No doubt a present from her beau. "What are you still doing here?"

Darcy watched the sun as it lingered in the sky. It was a cloudless evening. The world was starting to turn blue. "I didn't realise the time," she admitted. She started to remove her apron, thanking Maria when she offered to help following her hair getting caught in the string. When it was off, she folded it and walked into the kitchen to collect her things.

"You're a good actor, Darcy," Maria insured, coming into the room. "One day someone will see it."

Darcy raised her eyebrows, her mouth a thin line. "Yeah, but _one day_ could be fifty years down the line. I don't know if I want to be waiting around for this silly dream to come true for that long."

"Maybe it won't be fifty years. Maybe it'll be tomorrow. Or next week," Maria pointed out, enthused. She waved her arms around wildly. Drama Queen to the max. "It's not a silly dream, Darce. Your mom knew that, you know that. Don't let one bad audition ruin what you've been working towards for your whole life."

"But it wasn't just one bad audition, Maria! It's been every single fucking audition," Darcy corrected. The mention of her mother brought tears to her eyes. Her face grew warm. "Every audition, I've been a failure. I'm sick of it. Maybe I'm not cut out for this."

Maria kept her distance. She lowered her voice and said, "Darcy Lewis, we never give up. We are strong, independent women taking the paths we carved for ourselves when we were children. Have faith in yourself and your abilities. I swear to you, it will pay off, all of this auditioning and rejection. Soon, you'll be laughing about the time all those years ago you couldn't land a role."

"Have you ever thought about being a motivational speaker?" Darcy asked as one tear trickled down her face.

Maria laughed. "My dad writes self-help books and goes on book tours promoting them. I used to go when I was younger. I guess his inspirational wisdom managed to rub off on me."

The girls talked more about their chosen profession as they tidied the café. Maria left first, off on another date with her boyfriend. Darcy stuck around for another few minutes. She watched cars drift in and out of the lot. Golf carts carrying stars and small props moved between the studios. Lights as big as Darcy's oven fell and crashed to the ground, splattering the streets with shards of glass.

Darcy winced. Someone was getting in trouble for that.

She adored the lot at night. There was something serene about it. Like it was all part of a dream sequence in Darcy's very own biopic. Nothing could compete with the view, nor with the feeling it instilled within her.

When it was time to leave, Darcy slung her purse over her shoulder and exited. She twisted the lock to the café, jiggling the handle to make sure everything had bolted, and turned towards the street. As she was putting the café key inside her bag, Darcy collided with a hard object and started falling backwards. There was a moment of sheer panic. Of Holy-Shit-Is-This-How-I-The-Great-Darcy-Lewis-Die? panic. Memories of her life came rushing to her head. She thought of her mother. Her father. Samson, the golden retriever with the longest fur imaginable.

And then the panic stopped. Whatever she had crashed into had arms, and hands attached to those arms, and was holding onto her, stopping her from hitting the ground. Darcy's own hands wound around the person's—she assumed it was a person; the only alternative was alien, and she didn't really like the sound of that—forearms. She gasped, eyes locking on her hero.

James Buchanan Barnes. Because who the fuck else could it have been.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Darcy refused to pick up on the genuine concern in his voice. She almost wanted to let go of him, but that would mean falling on her ass in front of her nemesis, so she continued holding on. "I'm fine," she said, clambering to her feet. When she was standing upright she immediately dropped her hands from his body.

A shiver ran down her spine, causing her toes and fingers to twitch, but she brushed it off. She had almost died. It was probably residual shock combined with anger directed towards her rescuer.

James Buchanan Barnes' face squinted, like he was trying to figure out if he knew her. The only light they had was from the sound stages and street lamps. Hardly good lighting. She doubted he would recognise her.

"Are you sure? Your chin looks busted."

Why was he so worried about her? "I'm fine," Darcy insisted, keeping her tone low and menacing. "I'm absolutely fine. No thanks to you, of course."

"I literally just stopped you from crashing to the ground. How is this in any way my fault?"

"The only reason I started falling was because you walked into me."

"You walked into me!"

Their faces were close. Both were red with anger. Darcy felt a fire spark inside of her belly. She did love a confrontation, and she had been waiting for this one for three years.

"Who cares who walked into who? I was minding my own business when you stopped short. I could have fucking died."

James Buchanan Barnes' mouth screwed in bewilderment. "So you admit that you were the one who walked into me?"

Dammit. She had kind of given herself away. "Again, who cares. You shouldn't have just been standing there."

"This is where people get picked up. There's a sign and everything," he pointed out, finger positioned towards said sign. "You weren't paying attention. Just admit it."

"I will admit to nothing," Darcy said resolutely, glaring up at the actor.

Harsh breath splashed her face. In the cool May evening of Los Angeles, Darcy's skin burst forth with a spattering of goosebumps as James Buchanan Barnes' burnt up carbon dioxide beat against her. They said nothing more to each other. At least a minute passed before bright headlights invaded their quasi Mexican standoff.

The driver of the vehicle stepped out and came towards the pair. Darcy didn't realise he was standing there until he cleared his throat. She snapped her attention away from the asshole in front of her.

"Mr. Barnes?" The driver—Scottish; she could tell by the accent—attempted to reach _Mr_. _Barnes_ , but _Mr_. _Barnes_ ' attention was occupied. He hadn't stopped staring at her.

There was a snarl yanking his lips, but he searched her face like he was still trying to place from where he knew her. She was in no mood to help him figure it out.

"Your driver's here," she said.

Eventually, James Buchanan Barnes' focus shifted from her to the patient driver. "Coming, Fitz."

Just like that, the battle was over. Neither had won. A ceasefire had been called before any real damage had been done. Darcy watched the actor climb into the passenger seat, his intense gaze finding her yet again as the car pulled away.

Darcy took a moment to breathe deeply, leaving to find her car only after she found the strength to walk in a straight line.

**. . .**

Loki kept asking for more details. Darcy kept telling him there were no more details. Still, the boy persisted.

"You guys are so perfect for each other," he said. He was sitting cross-legged on the sofa with Sergeant Tibbs beside him.

Darcy stood in the kitchen aggressively washing dishes. "We're not," she seethed. "We're mortal enemies."

"You're in love."

"Stop saying that. Could you imagine us getting together?" she asked, bile rising in her throat at the thought.

"I have imagined it many times. It's a beautiful image."

"Gross."

"Oh, you know I don't mean that. Stop making things so sexual."

"Then stop saying He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and I are perfect for each other!"

Loki gave an exaggerated sigh. "So, he's Voldemort now? You're comparing one of _the_ greatest actors of all time to the snake-faced Antichrist from _Harry Potter_?"

"He basically is the Antichrist," Darcy muttered hotly.

"You know," Loki said in his _I'm so clever, listen to me_ voice, "there is an extremely thin line between love and hate. You could just be mistaking your eternal love for loathing."

Darcy cackled like a witch high on eye of newt. "You're so funny, Loki. Seriously. You should stop acting and go for a career in comedy."

Giving up on his quest to make Darcy see the "truth", Loki shook his head and switched on the TV. Darcy drowned out the noises and continued cleaning, her head filled with rehearsed comebacks for the inevitable future meeting between her and her very own incarnation of Lord Voldemort.

Soon, though, her thoughts drifted to what Maria had said during their talk. _It's not a silly dream, Darce. Your mom knew that_. She hadn't forgotten about her failed audition from earlier in the day. The casting director said they would let her know by Monday if she had gotten the part. Darcy wasn't expecting a call—they never called if you didn't get it—but maybe she could do something productive while she waited.

"Loki?" Her best friend switched off the volume and looked over to her. "I think I'm gonna go see my dad tomorrow," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It needs to happen."

"Okay. I'll make some arrangements and get someone to cover your shift."

Darcy turned off the faucet and went over to hug Loki. "Thank you. You're the best. Even if you think I'm destined to be with the worst human being alive."

"Isn't the Antichrist dead?" he asked.

Darcy pulled away and shrugged. "Details."

* * *

_Everybody knows you tried,_

_And I tried_


	4. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been too long. But school is always busy and then life decides to hand you the worst month of your entire life, and writing gets put on the back burner. But I'm back! 
> 
> I hope this chapter is good enough to somewhat excuse the long wait. It's mostly backstory, but it helps the plot along. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the support of this story. It means the world. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_My body tells me no,_

_But I won't quit,_

_'Cause I want more_

My Body | Young the Giant

* * *

  **Part Three | Wesley, Heal Thyself**

* * *

 “At the hometown hero’s ticker tape parade! No confetti for the boys who stayed! Hometown hero’s ticker tape parade! You win a war, you pick a wife, you get respect your whole damn life! You’re a hometown hero, who gets a motherfuckin’ ticker tape parade! Da, dat, da, da, dat, da, da, da, da, da!”

Darcy wailed at the top of her lungs the finishing lines of “Hometown Hero’s Ticker Tape Parade” as she drove, trying to block any and all thoughts about where she was heading from entering her mind. Musicals did that for Darcy—they were a sort of escape from the world. With her show tunes playing, she was no longer Darcy Lewis. Instead she was Judas from _Jesus Christ Superstar_ , lamenting how blind Christ’s followers were becoming. She was Elphaba from _Wicked_ , chanting that no good deed went unpunished.

More often than not, though, she was Rose Fenny from _Dogfight_ , struggling with her self worth and falling for a marine who was shipping out in the morning. Darcy couldn’t imagine Broadway (or even Off Broadway) hiring her for any role, but she imagined if she could get on any stage in New York, she would be up there as Rose with some handsome, boy-faced actor playing her Eddie Birdlace.

San Francisco loomed in the foreground as “First Date/Last Night” started playing. Grey and purple clouds were painted across the sky. It was always this way when Darcy visited. She had checked the weather before setting out and it had told a charming tale of sunshine and rainbows. She knew it had been too good to be true.

Dread filled her stomach the further she drove into the city. Familiar street lamps and restaurants taunted her in their welcome. Instinctively, Darcy turned up the volume and hummed along to Eddie’s solo. Anything to distract her from her surroundings.

Soon, those familiar street lamps turned to familiar flower beds and mailboxes, and Darcy pulled up to her father’s large house at the end of a clean road. She switched off the car. Rose’s voice went silent. Darcy’s ears rang. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come all the way to San Fransisco. Work needed her—she was the best cashier they had. She wanted to be there when Jane got home, too.

Nearly a year had passed since she last saw her dad. She had no idea what state she would find him in, and she wasn’t so sure she wanted to get out of her car just to see nothing had changed since they last were face to face. The phone call on her birthday a couple of months ago told her nothing at all except his new chef quit, which did not take Darcy by surprise at all. He had the highest standards when it came to cuisine. Darcy was handed down that particular gene to the dismay of everyone who ever had the pleasure of dining out with her.

Darcy pulled out her phone and quickly found Loki under the Recent Calls tab. He answered on the second ring.

“You can do this,” he said before she could start saying what a horrible idea it was to show up at her father’s house unexpectedly. “Just take some deep breaths and think of happy things.”

“Like what?”

Loki paused only for a split second. “Like James Buchanan Barnes! Kissing on you, loving on you, sexing you up. Think of those beautiful eyes. Those big hands. That big”—

“Okay, enough!” Darcy squealed. “I am more disgusted right in this very moment than I have ever been in my entire life.”

“What? I was going to say big heart. That big heart-on he has for you.”

Darcy laughed. “You watched _The Bronze Statue_ after I left, didn’t you?”

_The Bronze Statue_. Four years old, in which an Indiana Jones-esque character discovers a Greek statue in peak condition. Sounds boring, but then the statue comes alive.

AKA, it was the film where James Buchanan Barnes went full-frontal. Unsurprisingly, it was Loki’s favourite JBB movie. Darcy was loathe to admit it, but it deserved all of the hype it received. James Buchanan Barnes somehow managed to make a lousy-sounding plot work incredibly well.

“You were gone, Jane isn’t here. I couldn’t help myself.”

“You need a boyfriend,” Darcy said. “Thanks, Loki. I feel better.”

“I told you all you needed to do was think of James.”

“You’re so off the mark,” Darcy insisted. “You’re the one that always helps. I should probably go. I think I can hear Freddie barking and I don’t want my dad to come at me with his shotgun again.”

“Right. I remember that. Not a fun day for anyone, as I recall. I’ll talk to you later, Darce. Sending love your way, from both me and James.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Bye, Loki. Oh, and don’t forget to clear out Tibbs’ litter box!”

“Have I ever let you down before?”

Though he couldn’t see her, Darcy could not stop her dramatic eye roll. “Several times. _Se-ver-al_.”

Loki smacked his tongue. “Fine. I’ll try my best to remember. _Au revoir_.”

“You better not forget!”

Darcy ended the call and pressed the phone against her chest. She took in some deep breaths and, when she felt like she would pass out, opened her door and exited the car.

Upon nearing the house, she knew something was off almost instantly. Freddie continued barking, aware a stranger was outside of his home, but her father did not come rushing to the door with a gun in his hands. Darcy peered in through the window strips either side of the door. Everything was quiet inside of the house except for the yapping sheepdog.

This wasn’t good. Her dad’s car was in the driveway, which meant he was for sure at home. She had to get inside to make sure he was okay. Thankfully, she knew where he hid the spare key. She kept saying to him that someone would find it—it was far too obviously hidden in a fake rock collection surrounding some dying flowers—but he never moved it. With the key in hand, Darcy stuck it in the doorknob and entered the house. Freddie ran to her, snarling. Once he got a whiff of her, he transformed into the doting puppy dog she so adored to visit.

“Where’s Daddy, huh, Fredster?” she asked him in a high-pitched voice. Darcy looked around the entryway. Her dad’s palace of a home would be difficult to search without Freddie helping. “Where is he, bud?”

The dog took off, going in circles to make sure Darcy was still following. They clambered up the spiral staircase and came to the master bedroom. Freddie clawed the door. He whined, grey eyes on Darcy. She scratched his ears to soothe him, wishing someone were there to soothe her.

Darcy slowly opened the door. “Dad?” she called. No response.

The room was pitch black. Her father’s blackout curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking any natural light from entering, but Darcy didn’t need to see the room to know her dad was inside. The overpowering scent of alcohol gave that away. The vapours in the air managed to sting her eyes. She searched for a light switch on the wall. The magnificent chandelier above her father’s bed lit up, revealing a room the size of her entire apartment.

And there he was. Sprawled on the satin bedsheets, an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Dad!” Darcy cried, rushing over to him. He was shirtless. Vomit clung to his chin. The smell was horrid, but Darcy dove onto the bed anyway. She shook his body over and over. “Dad! Please wake up. Please.”

Slowly, Wesley Lewis’ eyes slid open. He was completely out of it, but he was alive. Darcy stopped shaking him. Tears dripped down her face and she gasped in relief.

“Darce?” he said, groggy. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Darcy didn’t care that he was covered in sick and alcohol, she bent down and hugged her father. She held onto him for dear life.

* * *

Wesley Lewis was a drinker. Darcy remembered that about her childhood. With every meal, whether it was mac and cheese or sirloin steak, he had a drink in his hand. It was never much of a problem. He typically stuck to one drink a night. Before she was seventeen, she had never seen him drunk. Never tipsy or giggly or angry.

But then It happened.

( _It_. Not a terrifying, demonic clown attack, but rather a life-altering event that pushed Darcy’s father to the liquor cabinet night after night, morning after morning.)

Everything changed after that. How could it not.

One drink a night became two. Then three. Then, before Darcy had time to catch her breath, her father was downing an entire bottle a night. What a thing for a high school senior to witness: the absolute destruction of the man meant to protect her and provide for her.

Her eighteenth birthday didn’t provide much solace. There was no way she could abandon her dad to live out her dream of being an actress in Los Angeles. At the time, she wasn’t so sure that was even the path she wanted to take anymore. Doubts swarmed her mind. Whenever she thought of auditioning for local theatres, her chest tightened and the world spun.

Instead of shipping herself down the river to LA, Darcy stuck around in San Fransisco. She became the bread winner when the money from her dad’s trust fund started disappearing to maintain his drinking habit. Starbucks had never hired a better barista before she got there. When she wasn’t working or checking on her dad to make sure he was alive, she was taking small acting classes at the local community college where her professors helped her to get over the anxiety she had been experiencing in relation to performing.

Two-and-a-half years after It happened, Darcy finally left San Francisco. There was nothing left for her in the city. Her father’s drinking was out of hand, and he was sucking all of the joy out of Darcy’s life. The joy she was already struggling to preserve. Hard though it was knowing she was essentially abandoning her fragile, vulnerable dad to wallow in his depression, she had tried so hard to fix things to no avail. It was time to leave. Time to realise he was not going to get better.

She visited every now and then, but the trips up were very few and far between. A girl could only take so much.

Darcy finished putting her father’s sheets in the washing machine and came into the large kitchen. He was sat at the island in the centre of the white and gold room, a glass of warm water in front of him. Outside, it was raining. Darcy had opened the doors leading to the back garden. Splatters of rain skidded on the wooden floor.

Approaching her dad, Darcy scanned his face. Silver scruff ran across his jaw. His long, square face was sallow and sunken. The bags beneath his blue eyes were purple and looked like they weighed a tonne. She had never seen him in such a state.

“Don’t look at me like that, Darce,” he said groggily.

“Like what? Like I just caught you passed out in your own vomit? I’m allowed to look like this, Dad,” she said, deepening her frown to further her point. She banged the marble island top. “Damn it! How many times have you woken up like that?”

Darcy’s father attempted to scoff, but the noise turned into a coughing fit. He cleared his throat and scowled up at his daughter. “Hey, young lady, you’re the one who left to start a new life. You can’t come here out of the blue and be angry at me for not changing when you’ve been off trying to become famous. Life doesn’t stand still when you’re not in the room.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Darcy clenched her fist to stop herself from blurting out something that could set her dad off. “I’m your daughter,” she said, surprised for the second time that week at how level she was able to keep her voice. “I _am_ allowed to come in here and be angry at you. You’re killing yourself. What if you don’t wake up next time?”

“And what if I don’t?”

He said it.

Darcy had been waiting for those words for almost six years, but hearing them knocked the wind out of her. She grabbed the edge of the island to keep herself upright.

From beneath the curtain of hair covering her eyes, Darcy stared at her father. Drunk, still swaying in his seat.

Enough.

“Then I’ll be alone.”

“What, like me?” he spat. Through the haze in his eyes, Darcy saw tears welling. “You’re not here anymore, Darce. What’s left after that?”

One of her professors taught her a very primitive technique to stop herself from crying too hard during an emotional scene. A tight, scratchy throat meant you couldn’t deliver lines properly.

Standing in front of her bleary father, Darcy pinched the soft skin of her forearm. Her throat opened in response to the pain.

“I’m here, Dad,” Darcy asserted. She kept her fingernails around that piece of skin. “I know you hate the expression just as much as I do, but the phone works both ways. If you wanted me here, you wouldn’t hang up every time I try to call.”

Darcy’s father reached out suddenly and grabbed her wrist. Darcy’s fingers slipped from her arm. “I want you here,” he said, desperate. “You’re my Baby Girl.”

It wasn’t an innovative nickname by any means, but her father hadn’t called her Baby Girl in a long, long time. The small throwback to when life was easier and happier clipped Darcy’s throat shut completely.

“I’m going to run you a shower,” Darcy said when she managed to relax. “It’ll be cold because of the washer. Is that okay?” Her father nodded his head slowly, nostrils flaring. Darcy put her palm against his rough cheek. “We can talk some more when you get out.”

Leaving him to finish his water at the island, Darcy took in deep breaths as she headed towards the master bedroom. With the large windows open, the acrid scent had wafted out, replaced by the smell of rain. Darcy started the shower and pressed her head against the cool glass of the square-shaped stall.

The trip, Darcy had to admit, was going about as well as she could have hoped.

* * *

He had the shakes. Already, he had the shakes. He had been apart from his alcohol for less than two hours and it was too long.

She felt partially responsible for the way things turned out. After It, she was too consumed by her own grief—too stuck—that she allowed her father to slip into the whiskey bottle. He drowned in that stuff. But it wasn’t too late to do something about it. She would try to fix things.

They sat in the lounge on the biggest leather sofa in the world. Darcy frowned when she saw it.

(“It was too good of a deal to pass up,” he said.

“Tell that to the cows that died to make this couch,” she challenged.)

He got straight to the point. “So, why are you here?” His teeth chattered as he spoke. The chills had set in as well. Freddie licked at the sweat gathering on his arms.

Believe it or not, but Darcy had forgotten her reason for travelling all the way up to San Francisco. It was bound to happen. Bound to slip her mind when she thought, for five terrifying seconds, that her father had choked on his own vomit and died.

“I have news,” she said. She was nervous. She had the shakes too.

“What kind of news?”

Darcy weighed the pros and cons in her mind. “Good news, I think.”

“You think?” Her father, through the side effects of withdrawal, sounded concerned.

“It is good news,” she said. “I’m just not sure how you’ll take it.”

He understood. It was written all over his slumped face. “Work-related news, then,” he figured. “You’ve got a part?”

Wesley Lewis did not approve of her decision to pursue acting. He thought there was no future in the business for her, and she shouldn’t waste her time going to auditions. He never outright said these things, but Darcy knew how strongly he felt about her career choices. The world deserved her. She was destined for greater things than a coffee shop.

She never listened to him. Never gave his disheartening looks a second thought. They fuelled her almost. She went to those auditions hoping to prove her dad wrong.

“Not a part,” she said, “but my last audition went okay. I screwed up in the beginning big time, but they let me start over. The more I think about it, the more I want the job.” Maria’s talk had done wonders for her self-esteem.

Her dad nodded his head slowly, digesting her words. “What’s the role?”

“There’s a new miniseries in pre-production about the Vietnam War. I’d play a nurse. It’s one episode, but I’d have lines and everything.”

“Who else is in it?”

_Ugh_. Freaking James Buchanan Barnes had managed to slip her mind for the majority of this trip. And there he was, sneaking his smug little way back in.

Darcy winced. “James Buchanan Barnes. He’s the lead.”

“Who is he?”

For someone who had the biggest TV known to mankind, Darcy knew her father hadn’t watched many movies in the years since It occurred. “You know,” she said, trying not to gag, “he’s in that film you really like. He’s got a square jaw. A big forehead. His brow bones kind of jut out like an apes?”

“Mhm. What movie?”

“What’s the only movie you’ve seen in the last six years?”

And it dawned on him. His eyes widened. “ _Porter’s Civil War_? That guy? He’s amazing.”

Wow. Even her alcoholic, entertainment-deprived father managed to appreciate James Buchanan Barnes.

“He’s . . . okay,” she said defensively. “But yeah, that guy.”

“Take the part. The moment they offer it to you, take it,” he said.

Darcy was taken aback. Shocked. Flabbergasted.

Never in her life did she think she would hear her dad encouraging her to take an acting role.

What a sad life.

“Because James Buchanan Barnes is going to be in it?” she asked. That had to be it. Why he was essentially giving her permission to throw away any chance of a proper career.

Her father turned his head to the side, contemplating what to say next. His eyebrows quivered. The shakes had stopped. “I can hear it in your voice,” he said, his own voice cracking. Darcy knew where this headed. She wasn’t ready for it. She hadn’t come prepared. “You’re excited about this. She—I know she, uh, she would have been excited too.”

Tears rolled down her father’s cheeks. They gathered beneath his chin and dripped onto the leather sofa. In the quiet house, with her father’s quiet sobs, she could hear them as they splashed.

Was this it? The moment he decided it was time for a change? Odd timing, but she would take it. She would take it and run wild with it.

_Please, God_ , she chanted in her mind. _Please_.

“Oh, Dad,” she said, sounding as though her mouth were full of hair. She careened forward and gathered her father in her arms. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

* * *

Wesley Lewis was asleep. As soon as he disappeared into his room—from which Darcy had cleared all of the remaining alcoholic beverages—she got to work on the rest of his house. The rest of his _mansion_. A maid kept everything neat and tidy, but she didn’t know about all of the secret hiding spots. Darcy did. She had watched her dad create them years ago. As she poured the bottles down the drain, she kept thinking of that old saying: a leopard never changes its spots.

She crossed her fingers the saying only pertained to her dad’s alcohol stashes.

When she was positive all of the alcohol was gone, she searched online for local AA groups. Finding one she liked that wasn’t too far away, she located a sticky note and pen, and practically superglued the information on the fridge door.

Darcy retreated to her old room, where nothing had changed in the time since she left, once she was satisfied with her cleanup. Hers was the only carpeted room in the entire house. She insisted it have carpet when her parents were remodelling the home. She liked the softness beneath her feet. The fibres between her toes. Decorating every inch of wall space were movie posters, the biggest and most prominent being _L.A. Confidential_ , the first film Darcy saw that had her so caught up in the mystery and plot she forgot to be a know-it-all and guess the ending.

In the centre of the room, up against the wall, was her adoring queen-sized bed. Two fluffy pillows awaited her head, and she gladly slumped on the mattress. Knowing she wasn’t going to be able to get much sleep, Darcy pulled out her phone and dialled Loki’s number.

“Darcy?”

Darcy sat up. “Jane! Oh my God, I’ve missed you. The apartment has been so . . . _Loki_ without you in it to even things out. What are you doing home?”

“Funny you should say that, because Loki said things had been too ‘Darcy’ without me,” Jane said with a laugh. Darcy had missed that laugh. She needed that laugh to get her through the day sometimes. “And we were supposed to get back two days ago, remember?”

“You and Thor always extend your trips. I was expecting you guys to stay longer,” Darcy said. “Speaking of, where are the prodigal brothers.”

“Oh, you know them. They immediately got into a drinking competition and are currently passed out on top of each other on the sofa. Sergeant Tibbs is not impressed.”

In her head, Darcy could see the two brothers drunkenly cuddling each other as her cat debated whether or not to stab them both with his claws.

“Hey, speaking of drinking”—

—“Yeah, that was probably in bad taste,” Jane cut in.

“No,” said Darcy quickly. “Not in bad taste. Not at all.”

“How is he?”

“Asleep. It was a rough evening, let me say that much.”

“Tell me about it.”

And Darcy did. She told Jane everything.

Darcy was wiping away some tears from beneath her glasses when Jane dutifully and cleanly changed the subject. “So, what’s this I hear about you and James Buchanan Barnes?”

“Oh, Christ. What has Loki told you?”

“Nothing in particular,” Jane said. Yeah, like Darcy believed that. “I want to hear it all from you.”

“There is really nothing to say,” Darcy maintained, though the mention of his name had woken her up a little. But she was sure that had everything to do with how angry he made her.

“Nothing? You ran into the guy two times three years after he tried to get you fired, are potentially starring alongside him in this new miniseries, and he’s madly in love with you! Is that nothing?”

“Loki literally told you everything, didn’t he? That guy cannot keep his mouth shut about this.”

“Not when his best friend is destined to be with the greatest actor of our generation, he can’t,” Jane proposed. “This is exciting, Darce! What if he’s right?”

“What if our pothead roommate is right about me and the asshole actor who, like you mentioned, tried to get me fired? You think he’s right about me and that guy being perfect for each other?” Darcy could not keep the disdain out of her voice. She didn’t want to.

“Our pothead roommate is the most romantic person on the planet. He has an intuition about this stuff. He set me and Thor up all that time ago, and look at us now.”

“Yeah, you guys make me want to throw up every time I’m in the room with you. And from what I recall, Loki mistakenly gave you Thor’s number when he was trying to set you up with his old college buddy,” Darcy said.

“That is besides the point.”

“That is exactly the point. It was an accident. Loki’s not got some sixth sense about this shit. He’s just so mesmerised by James Buchanan Barnes’ face and dick that he can’t think straight.”

Jane giggled—like a child—on the other end. “You’re just mad because you think there’s a possibility he might be right.”

Making a gagging noise, Darcy said, “Why would I think that?”

“Because, Darce. You’re bitter and single and, let’s be real, James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly hot.”

“Says the girl dating the human embodiment of a god.”

“Please, I’m allowed to find other men attractive. And you’re not listening. Loki said he was nice to you the other night. Like, really nice to you.”

“And then the next night he was horrible to me,” Darcy interjected. “Did Loki tell you he almost killed me?”

Another giggle. “He told me he saved you from almost dying after you walked into him.”

Ugh! This was a pointless endeavour she was pursuing. Jane had already made up her mind. She was to follow Loki into the deep.

Screw both of them.

“He walked into me,” Darcy insisted. “I swear it on my life.”

* * *

 

Come morning—the sun broke through the clouds at six o’clock, only three hours after she and Jane had ended their call—Darcy was ready to face her father about his problems. She cooked breakfast, a quick French toast recipe that required no knives, and they spoke as they ate.

Their conversation was strange. Darcy kept feeling as though things had not changed an ounce. As though she was still sixteen, or perhaps even younger. She saw her father’s face as it was when she was a child. But then the lighting would shift inside the kitchen, and she would remember how different everything really was.

He agreed with the things she was saying, though. That was the important part. That was the part that lifted the thousand pound weight from her chest and made her feel like she could float away into the sky.

She hugged her dad and placed a kiss on his rough cheek. One trip would not change everything. She would visit more. Not just to check up on him (or so she said), but to further mend their severed ties. She would phone when she couldn’t travel, or phone just because there was news.

Baby steps.

They were trying.

“Drive safe, Baby Girl,” her father said as she climbed into her car. Freddie was off in the distance, running after some birds.

She looked at him through the open window. “I will, Dad,” she promised. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

There were no declarations of love. Not yet. They weren’t there—wouldn’t be there for a little while longer. But he tapped the hood of her car and she drove away as Rose Fenny started to sing.

Seven hours later, Darcy trudged from the elevator to her apartment and opened the door. “I’m home!” she called tiredly.

Immediately, she was greeted by Sergeant Tibbs weaving around her legs. Jane, Thor, and Loki came to her soon after.

“News,” Jane screeched, “I’ve got news!”

Darcy recoiled from the loud noise. The trio were standing in a line in front of her, all wearing giddy smiles. Unless James Buchanan Barnes had died in the night, they had no reason to be looking so damn happy.

“What is it?” she asked, closing the door with her foot. Jane stuck her hand out. Her left hand. Darcy dropped her bag. Sergeant Tibbs ran, tail bushy and sticking straight up. “Oh my GOD!” Her eyes didn’t know what to focus on: the ginormous engagement ring on Jane’s finger or the Hercules that gave it to her.

“It’s why we extended our trip!” Jane squealed.

Darcy pulled her into a tight hug. “Why didn’t you tell me over the phone?”

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Jane said, ending the hug. She realigned herself with the brothers.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Darcy accused, poking Loki in the chest. “You knew this was going to happen.”

“He is my brother,” Loki defended.

“Aye, Darcy,” Thor said, “he is my brother. I asked him not to tell you.”

Darcy pouted. “Why not?” The three of them shot her a Don’t-You-Know look. “I can keep secrets!”

“I know you can,” Loki said, “but this was a big one. We didn’t want to risk it.”

Darcy was about to open her mouth and complain some more—how could she be the only one left out of the loop; without her, there was no fucking loop!—when the ancient landline started ringing. Four heads turned to the black phone standing upright in its dock.

It rang. And rang. And rang. No one touched it.

After several rings, it clicked to the machine. “Hi, you’ve reached Loki, Jane, and/or Darcy. Either none of us are here right now, or we don’t care to speak to you. Leave a message after the terribly annoying _beep_ to find out which option it is!” _BEEEEP_.

_Nice one, Loki_ , Darcy thought. She had forgotten he recorded that.

“Uh, Darcy, this is Erik Selvig from the production of _All Dead, All Dead_. We’d love to have you back for another audition. Call me when you can at”—

The message went on, but Darcy’s ears were ringing. She didn’t hear Erik Selvig leave his number. She only heard her heart as it pounded like one of those vibrating trucks used to find oil underground.

She got a callback.


	5. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally here. Please, please - hold your applause. 
> 
> A few of notes on this chapter: 
> 
> 1) I have decided to move Jane out of the story. She will still be here every now and again (I may or may not have a wedding planned for her and Thor . . .), but I kept her at a distance for so long that when she entered the scene last chapter I was unsure of what to do with her. Besides, don't we all like Loki and Darcy's interactions too much to cloud them by adding another person?
> 
> 2) The title for the miniseries comes from an amazing song by Don McLean called "The Grave" about the Vietnam War. I know fic authors always suggest you listen to songs, but if you do anything I request, please let it be listening to this brilliant piece of art. If you've never heard Don McLean's voice before (which is highly unlikely as "American Pie" is one of the most famous songs of all time), then I really, really urge you to find this song on YouTube. American Pie the album is so much more than just the titular song. And we'll all just ignore "Everybody Loves Me, Baby." 
> 
> 3) The title for this part is utterly stupid. And the chicken goes buck buck buck. It'll make sense at the end of the chapter, but it's still really stupid. I'm editing this on three hours of sleep. I have no ability to come up with clever titles.
> 
> And with that said, please enjoy!

_ He say, 'One and one and one is three,' _

_ Got to be good looking  _

_ Cause he's so hard to see _

Come Together | The Beatles

* * *

 

** Part Four | And The Chicken Goes **

A phone rang somewhere in the room. Darcy’s eyes swerved around frantically, checking her coworkers’ faces for guilty looks. Beside her, Loki had frozen. Great. He had just started to wrap up. These monthly meetings were always incredibly long—so long they had to come in a half hour early just to hear them—and someone was stupid enough to leave their phone on. Loki took these motivational gatherings very seriously. He spent hours going over stats and performances and Yelp reviews to prepare for his speech. He did not like being interrupted. 

Someone was going to pay dearly for this. 

Darcy glanced up at her much taller boss. His blue eyes were slits, basically closed. Strangely, he looked like an albino snake just waiting for his prey to flinch.

The phone kept ringing, a soft, muffled song Darcy couldn’t quite figure out. Nobody moved.

“Whose phone is it?” Loki’s voice was eerily calm. The crowd stared straight ahead. Sucking in a deep, overdramatic breath, Loki asked again, “Whose phone is it? I won’t be angry, so just tell me.”

He was like a parent trying to get their child to admit to something bad. _Don’t worry, dear. Just tell me, I won’t get overly mad at you for no good reason. Promise._

Darcy bet that just like any parent, he would break that promise in a heartbeat. 

The room was silent save for the endlessly ringing phone. Continuing to look around the room, Darcy slowly started recognising the ringtone. Of course nobody was claiming it.

“Loki,” Darcy hushed, nudging Loki’s side.

He snapped his head down to look at her. She nearly jumped back. He looked like he could strangle her for calling his attention away from the crowd of breathless baristas.

Eyes cold, he hissed, “What?”

Darcy, in silent response, rolled her eyes.

“Sorry,” Loki apologised, straightening. His face softened immediately. “What is it?”

“Nobody’s going to admit it’s their phone,” she said.

“Why ever not?”

Darcy began humming the tune as it continued quietly playing. “ _Everything will be alright_ ,” she sang, “ _Everything will be alright_ . . . and yada, yada, yada.”

Loki’s eyes blew up twice their normal size. “It’s my phone,” he said as he started pushing through the throng of people. He reached his messenger bag and pulled out his phone. “I thought I’d switched the sound off. I’m so sorry everyone! _Yes, yes, hello, Thor. What is it? I’m in the middle of something very important, and you’ve just made me look like a complete ass . . ._ ”

Along with the rest of her coworkers, Darcy laughed watching Loki escape from the kitchen. Thankfully, they all loved him too much to get angry at him for the way he composed himself at these meetings. How anyone could hate the great, gay Englishman, Darcy had no clue. He was even kind to those he beat out at auditions. He simply got very invested in his role as Manager/Supreme Overlord of Warner Bros. Latte, and that often led to outrageous, farcical antics. Nobody at the café took it too seriously.

Maria Hill came over to Darcy, snickering into her hand. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. A gorgeous set of earrings nearly blinded Darcy as the light caught whatever carat diamonds they were.

“He’s crazy,” the taller woman said, taking Loki’s place beside Darcy.

“You know, I’ve been thinking that more and more. I’m wondering if we should get him evaluated.”

Fiddling with her ear, Maria nodded. “My dad knows plenty of shrinks. I’m sure we could get him an appointment for free.”

“I’d continue with this conversation,” Darcy said, glancing upwards, “but I’m far too distracted by the shiny things poking holes in your ears.”

“Oh, these.” Maria put her hand down and sighed. She didn’t look too pleased.

“Is something wrong with them? Are they blood diamonds?” she whispered.

Maria huffed a half-hearted laugh. “No, nothing like that. I just”— she paused and took in a breath. Either the light was playing tricks on Darcy, or Maria looked like she was about to start crying. “I just thought he was going to propose, you know?”

_Oh_.

“We’ve been dating for nearly two years. Living together for one. When he pulled out this box last night while we were at _Melisse_ I thought for sure a ring was going to be inside, but it was these.” She touched her ears again. “They’re gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. But I’m not all that young anymore and I was really hoping . . .” she trailed off as her eyes overflowed.

Darcy, unsure of what to do when one’s boyfriend had disappointed you by not proposing, rubbed Maria’s back and made awkward _shhh_ -ing noises until Maria seemed to have had enough standing and sort of collapsed into Darcy.

Before the woman could apply any more weight to the already-in-danger-of-falling-over Darcy, another phone started ringing, much louder than Loki’s. It was hers, and it was Phil’s specialised ringtone.

“Maria, I’m so sorry this is happening,” Darcy cooed, not sure how to deal with the situation, “but . . . I’ve got to get that. It’s my agent.”

Nodding as she lifted herself off Darcy, Maria wiped at her streaky eyes. “God!” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry. I need to clean up my face. I hope it’s more good news, Darce!” she said, walking towards the toilets with her makeup bag in hand.

She hoped as much too. She had this unsettling fear the casting people for the miniseries had decided they didn’t want her for a callback after all. Every time Phil called, her heart would start racing and she would get lightheaded. 

Feeling that lightheadedness now, Darcy sneaked through the kitchen and grabbed her phone.

“Phil.”

“Darcy!”

He sounded happy. Too happy.

Darcy could pass out from nerves.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. She twirled a thick strand of her too-long hair, wondering if it was the length that maybe the casting people disliked. The ends were beginning to fray.

“Everything’s perfect. I’m calling to update you on your callback,” he said cheerily. 

So, she was right. They don’t want her after all. It probably wasn’t even the casting people. It was probably the show creator who heard she had a little bit of a womanly figure and decided there was no way she was coming back for another audition.

Scratch that. It was definitely freaking James Buchanan Barnes and his stupid face deciding he couldn’t work alongside someone like her for even a half-day of day of shooting.

“Give it to me straight, Phil.” Might as well go down with her head held high. Later, she would get drunk off Ben and Jerry’s and cry on Loki’s shoulder.

“Darcy, my angel, your callback is this Friday. 3:00 in the afternoon. Do _not_ be late.” Phil sounded as though he was bursting at the seams.

The young actress nearly dropped her phone as Phil’s words finally started making some sense. They still wanted her. Relief flooded her system, warming her whole body. “O—okay,” she stammered. “Thanks, Phil.”

“Take a deep breath, Darcy. I know you’re freaking out. I know you’re worried this is going to end like all of the other auditions. But I have faith in you,” Phil assured. He was good at his job. There was no denying it. “These guys, they like you. They want you for this job. Go in there on Friday and prove to them that you deserve to be on screen.”

Dabbing her overheated forehead with the end of her apron, Darcy smiled. “Will do, Phil. Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

And with that, her golden agent clicked off.

Though she found it difficult sometimes, Darcy had to remember she was not the only one suffering from her lack of work. Phil was agent to a good number of talented people, all of whom got more work than her. Most of them were skinnier and prettier and whatnot, but he felt the pain too whenever she was ignored by a casting director. It only made sense he rejoiced in her triumphs as well.

Darcy was packing her phone away when Loki came back into the kitchen looking like someone pissed in his coffee.

“It wasn’t important then?”

Loki swiped an angry hand through his hair and retightened his apron around his waist. “Complete nonsense. I sometimes wonder if we’re even related.”

_Must not laugh_ , Darcy chanted to herself. _Must not laugh._

“What did he want?” she asked. If she asked him now, he was less likely to yammer on about it throughout their shift.

“He wanted to know if wearing chapstick was gay,” he lamented.

Darcy laughed. She _had_ to. She would have exploded if she had tried to keep it in. “What?” she exclaimed. 

“Because he’d seen me putting some on over Christmas. His lips were dry when he woke up this morning and he found Jane’s Blistex, but needed to check with me before applying it.” Loki angrily stuffed napkins in the pocket of his apron. “I get that he’s good looking—well, no, I don’t _get it_ get it, it’s just obvious since he’s been with about as many woman as exist in California—but no one’s that stupid, are they?” He looked at her, desperation in his blue eyes.

Putting her phone back in its rightful place, Darcy stroked her thumb over her best friend’s cheek. “We all know Thor’s a little bit of a meathead,” she said. “But now he knows that putting on chapstick doesn’t make him gay, so he’s a little bit less of a meathead. You’re a good samaritan, Loki.” The smile Loki gave her, kind of wobbly and apologetic, made Darcy frown. “You did tell him it doesn’t make him gay, didn’t you?”

Loki glanced up at the ceiling. “Well . . . not exactly . . .”

Coming from a conservative English family with ties to the aristocracy, Loki and Thor grew up on very different principles to Darcy. Her mother had always taught her to accept everybody for who they were so long as their decisions in life weren’t hurting anybody else.

As her mother used to say _love is love is love is love is love_. Gender identification (or lack thereof, Mrs. Lewis discovered later on) was nothing when it came to love. When remembering her mother’s words, Darcy thought of the short-lived Broadway show _Bonnie and Clyde_. You love who you love.

Unfortunately for her BFF, he did not grow up in the same fun-loving household as her. His parents were rigid, by-the-book folk. When Loki announced he was foregoing an accounting degree and instead majoring in drama, his parents nearly disinherited him. When, a little later on, he came out of the closet during a heated discussion with his father after they watched _American Beauty_ , they didn’t speak to him for almost an entire year.

Thor balanced the fine line between Loki and their parents. He loved Loki and accepted him, but he was also very clueless. Jane helped a lot in that department, but there was only so much upon which she could shed light. Loki needed to have an in-depth sit down with his brother and solve all of their issues. Lest Thor phone every time he thought something he was doing might be too gay for him.

“You’re unbelievable! Call him back right now. He’ll never be one hundred percent over his homophobia until you have a proper talk with him.” Putting napkins in her own apron, Darcy shook her head in disappointment. “God, you men are ridiculous. All of you, gay or straight or otherwise.”

“Even James Buchanan Barnes?” Loki tested.

Darcy wasn’t having it. She glared at him.

“I can’t phone him back now,” he whined. “We’ve got to finish this meeting before the shop opens.”

“Fine,” Darcy allowed. She poked Loki’s hand with a plastic-wrapped straw. He winced. “But tonight, before your commercial airs, you will have a long, long talk. He’s come a long way since you came out, but you can’t just expect him to understand everything on his own.”

“Okay, okay,” Loki said, a genuinely happy smile tearing his face in two at the mention of his Kay Jewellery commercial. “Who were you talking to?”

Darcy fought off her own painful-looking grin. “Phil. My callback’s on Friday. 3:00 in the afternoon.”

“We’re both on our way, aren’t we?” Loki asked, smiling wide enough for the two of them.

Were they both on their way? Not really. Loki had yet another commercial on his resume. Darcy, after years of auditioning, finally had her first callback. Hardly much of success stories.

Regardless, her stomach tingled at Loki’s words. All of it really did feel like the beginning of something.

* * *

“That was the longest shift ever,” Loki complained, doing nothing to help Darcy as she struggled opening the door to their apartment with a bag full of celebratory snacks and alcohol. “All of those people coming in and wanting coffee. It was exhausting.”

“Could you stop whinging about how terrible work was and hold this crap while I open this damn door?” Darcy snapped. She shoved the bag against Loki’s stomach and let go before he could refuse.

Cocking his head to the side, he smiled a slow, creepy sort of smile. “Did you just use the word _whinging_?”

Darcy heard the door click. She looked over her shoulder as she swung it wide. The pair entered, ignoring the boxes stacked around the place with phrases like _Jane’s mugs. Do NOT touch Loki!_ and more simply _Jane’s clothes_ written on them.

“Yes?” she said in response to his question, narrowly avoiding knocking over a box.

Loki handed her the bag and leaned against the door to close it. “My little English bird, you are spreading your gorgeous wings.”

“What?” Darcy started unpacking the groceries, her face screwed up with confusion.

“Whinging,” Loki explained. “It’s an English word. I’ve never heard an American use it before.”

“It must be starting,” Darcy said. Finding room in the cupboard, she locked away the cookies and bags of crisps they were going to indulge in later.

Still doing nothing to help, Loki asked, “What’s starting?”

Darcy shrugged. “My transition.”

“Transition into what?”

“An Englishman. I can feel tea running through my veins already. I suddenly want to sit and watch _Poldark_ with you while eating a scone and complain about how much I hate that Americans think they own _Doctor Who_.”

Loki coughed up some unamused laughs. “You’re hilarious,” he praised sarcastically. “For that, I won’t help you unpack the shopping.”

“You already didn’t help with that!”

“Well, then,” he said, finding his way to the sofa. He sat down with a _huff_ and crossed his arms. The guy never could take a joke at England’s expense.

“What are you guys arguing about?” Jane exited her bedroom carrying a box labeled _Bedside Table Drawer Crap_. She put it by the door and joined Loki on the sofa. It wouldn’t be long before his commercial aired. “Something about _Doctor Who_?”

“Darce was making fun of England again,” Loki sniffed.

Darcy shook her head in disbelief. What a drama queen. He could give Maria a run for her money. “I was teasing him,” she interjected. “You know I was only teasing, Loki. I love England with all of my heart.”

“How are you guys going to survive when I’m gone?” Jane asked, putting her arm around Loki and rubbing his shoulder.

Finished with unloading the bag, Darcy joined them on the sofa. The three of them sat there in silence for a few minutes, mulling over Jane’s words.

It was finally happening. Jane was moving out of their flat to be with Thor. Her and Loki knew she would leave eventually. From the moment Loki introduced Jane to his blond, muscled older brother, he knew. Neither of them had expected it would take this long, but the time had arrived. And they were not entirely ready.

Wednesday, Jane would wake up in their shared apartment for the last time. Just thinking about it made Loki tear up. Never having had a proper girlfriend before, Darcy’s stomach ached when she stared too long at any of the bajillion boxes spread about the place.

“We’re not going to be sad about it, are we?” Jane asked. Her voice sounded thick. She laid her head on Loki’s shoulder. “I’m moving in with my fiancé. It’s exciting, not sad.”

But it was the end of an era, and unlike some people Darcy thought endings were the worst part. Endings meant things had finished. There would be no more dance parties with the three of them. No more movie nights. No more arguments over who stole the last bit of coffee from the pot.

“When’s the commercial supposed to air, Loki?” Jane asked following another period of silence.

“5:00.”

“I don’t want to ruin the melancholy moment, but it’s 4:56.”

Loki jumped off the sofa. “Where’s the remote? Where’s the fucking remote?” He pulled cushions off the sofa, forcing Jane and Darcy to get up. “I can’t find it. We won’t be able to watch the commercial. Oh my God, my life is over.” He collapsed on the cushion-less couch.

Darcy rolled her eyes. “The remote’s here, Loki,” she said, waving the device in front of him.

“Where was it?” Grabbing it, he switched on the TV.

“Where it always is,” Jane said. “On top of the TV.”

“I never put it there.”

“We know,” Jane and Darcy said in unison.

Loki patted the crumby, uncomfortable sofa. “Sit, sit. It’s going to start any second!”

“Okay, okay, okay!”

Darcy and Jane took their seats and curled against Loki. Moments later, his face appeared on screen.

The thirty second bite of their non-cliché gay best friend frolicking in a field wearing a black suit with a very attractive woman in a wedding dress had the two girls laughing uncontrollably for the duration of the commercial. When it got to the end shot, and Loki got real close to the woman and put his hand beneath her chin, and they kissed, Jane and Darcy could scarcely breathe.

Beside them, Loki tried to hide his smile.

“We never did ask,” Jane said, “was she a good kisser?”

Darcy almost fell off the sofa she was laughing so hard, but she managed to squawk out her own question, “Did she ask for your number afterwards?”

“Her name was Clarissa and she”—

—“Explained it all?” Darcy interrupted, and a fresh spout of giggles, this time including Loki, erupted in their lounge.

* * *

_Friday, May 19. 3:24._

Darcy blacked out her phone’s lock screen for the fifth time in about as many seconds. She couldn’t help it. It was a nervous habit and she was, after all, nervous. No. Nervous was too trivial a word. Darcy Lewis was terrified. _Monumentally_ terrified, in fact. She had the shakes, her stomach felt like it could fall out of her at any moment, her skin was saturated in a layer of sweat.

Unlike at her first audition, there were no other women in sight. She was alone in the waiting area, the pile of magazines beside her chair untouched. Had they already narrowed it down so completely? Or perhaps she was simply the last audition of the day.

Great. Just what she needed. To be the last overtly sexual nurse called up. There were only so many ways one could say _Shhh, baby_ , and she was sure the casting people had heard it all by now.

Darcy was about to give in and start reading one of those trashy magazines—the one at the top had a very unflattering photograph of James Buchanan Barnes with his hand halfway in front of the camera lens and a headline that read _Hollywood’s Golden Boy Heading For Rehab???? Look On Page 24 To See What A Close Source Has To Say About His Drug Habits_ —when a door opened in the distance and a young woman around her age came into the room. She held her head up, but Darcy could see tears streaming down her puffy, pink face. Following close behind her was the same woman that had led Darcy into the audition room last time, trusty clipboard in hand.

“You must be Darcy Lewis,” she said, ignoring the crying girl whose sobs were growing louder and louder the further away she walked. “Come inside.”

All of that trepidation from ten seconds ago returned in full force. What the hell had they told that girl to make her cry? She was anxious before, but now she was finding it hard to will herself into a standing position. Her legs just didn’t want to move.

After an embarrassing amount of time, Darcy got to her feet and shuffled at the tail end of the assistant until they reached the audition room. This time there were no stiletto heels to worry about.

_Thank God_ , Darcy thought as she entered the room. Her eyes surveyed around, instantly catching on a figure with its head turned towards her. Forget falling out—Darcy’s heart instead shrivelled and crumbled into a billion different pieces inside of her.

“What's he doing here?" Darcy wanted to slap herself the instant the abrasive words tumbled out of her mouth. One did not speak about Oscar-winning actors in such a tone when they were in the room and expect to still have a chance at getting the job.

She opened her mouth to apologise, but the head casting director, Clint Barton, spoke before she could get a word out. “This is a chemistry test. Didn’t Phil let you know?”

“He didn't," she said flatly, too exhausted now to even attempt an apology. She was confused. "Chemistry test? I say two words to the guy. I didn't think that was enough to warrant a chemistry test."

"I requested it."

Ah, so the devil speaks.

“Darcy Lewis,” Clint said, waving his arm out in a flurry of introduction, “James Buchanan Barnes.”

Darcy eyed the immaculately dressed—damn him and his stupid expensive clothes—actor. He looked as though he could be smirking at her, the bastard. And yet there was nothing in that potential smirk that told her he knew who she was.

Looking back at the table of casting directors, she tried her best to ignore the video recorder behind the man in the middle. Its blinking red light made Darcy feel as though she had been caught up in a Casting Couch audition by mistake.

"Mr. Barnes likes to really understand each character in his projects," he clarified, sounding as though he was tired of being bossed around by selfish, rude actors with hidden anger management issues. "If he doesn't know who you are before the first table read, he feels lost."

Darcy did a double take. A real one that could give her whiplash. She turned her head to James Buchanan Barnes for a second before whirling it back suddenly to the sea of casting directors. "Now I'm coming to the table read?"

All of this was so unexpected. It was making her feel like she was a bigger part of this project than they were leading her to believe. She hadn’t even gotten the part yet!

Darcy caught James Buchanan Barnes clearly smirking beside her. Smug little actor boy. She so badly wanted to punch him in the mouth. Knock some of those pearly white teeth down his throat.

"If you get this part, yes. Once again, Mr. Barnes wants everyone with a speaking role as involved as possible with every step of production. This includes coming to the table reads," Clint said. "Now, are you ready to get started?"

Darcy was about to say no. She was about to shout it, actually, and go on some rant about actors' privilege and how she wasn't going to work alongside someone who managed to belittle her by including her in everything. But she stopped herself just in time. Looking at Mr. Barnes now, she remembered all of those looks given to her by other actors and workers on the Warner Bros. lot. Those looks of y _ou'll never make it. what's the point of trying?_

She was finally stepping up to the plate. Pushing past all of the negativity in her life and embarking on a new path. This could be the thing on her resume that finally brought her into stardom.

Instead of saying no, Darcy nodded her head determinedly.

"Okay then," a woman at the end of the table said. "Take a seat and I'll start setting the scene."

Darcy slowly sat in front of James Buchanan Barnes. She gathered herself, trying to pay attention to the woman's voice as she spoke of the hospital scene, all the while wondering if the man sitting in front of her was staring at her because he recognised her or because he was too busy getting into character to realise he was staring at her.

". . . As memories of the war start warping Danny's mind, he blindly reaches out, his hand coming into contact with a nurses wrist."

That was their cue.

She was ready for this.

James Buchanan Barnes slouched in his chair. He tilted his head back and suddenly reached forward, grabbing ahold of Darcy's wrist.

She jumped, just barely stopping herself from squealing. His hand was warm against her skin and his fingers wrapped entirely around her. It was like he had her wrist in a chokehold.

Against her better judgement, she felt herself grow slightly flushed at his touch. He squeezed her flesh and her heart responded by leaping against her ribs at five times its normal speed.

"Hue," he rasped, squeezing her again. He looked at her beneath the hoods of his eyes. She knew it was his stupidly amazing acting ability, but she could have sworn he had seen the battlefield. There were ghosts in his stare. "Where is Hue?"

It was now or never. Darcy swallowed the great lump of fear that had reformed in her throat. She batted her eyelids and pouted her lips. Two can play at that game, she thought before sliding her wrist out of his grip and entwining their fingers.

The move startled him. His eyes widened very slightly and he tensed in his seat for a second before settling back into the scene.

Darcy, proud of her decision, opened her mouth to speak her first line.

Less than two minutes later she delivered her final gem of dialog. _Fine, but don’t expect me to make you feel better when Hue runs back to her man._ The scene was called and Darcy took in a deep breath, trying to ignore all of the eyes on her.

She spoke five lines. Why was the room utterly silent as if she had delivered a Shakespearean-level monologue complete with costume and staging?

“Okay, thank you, Miss Lewis,” Clint said, and in his words Darcy heard a distinct dismissal.

Standing, she turned to the table and thanked them for their time. She headed out of the room with no assistance from the assistant, unable to fend off the feeling she had royally screwed something up in there.

The audition room was on the tenth level of a very tall building. Darcy went to the elevators, punching the arrow pointing downward. As she waited patiently for an elevator to rescue her from this floor, she heard someone walking her way. She looked discreetly to the right, surprised and at the same time wholly unsurprised to see James Buchanan Barnes closing in on her.

He hadn’t said anything when they finished their scene. Maybe his comments were too cruel to be said in a room full of other people. Although that didn’t seem to stop him from no doubt ruining that other girl’s life earlier.

The actor came and stood next to her. He folded his hands behind his back, tilting on his heels. He didn’t speak. He just waited there, eyes on the elevator doors.

In return, Darcy also kept her mouth shut. She throttled the hem of her black floral dress, pretending it was James Buchanan Barnes’ throat, to keep herself occupied. As much as she hated him, he obviously had a big say in who got this role. This forced her to retain any of the spiteful words she wished to hurl at him. Besides, what actor hadn’t sidestepped their morals for their job? She would simply be joining a crowd of many.

After several agonising minutes, a ding went off and the elevator doors opened. Darcy climbed inside. She punched the button for the lobby, expecting her possible costar to remain where he was—hadn’t he only come up to her to increase her levels of agitation and anxiety?—but he stunned her by stepping in as well. He joined her against the back of the elevator.

The doors closed, leaving Darcy Lewis in a confined space with her worst—correction, her _arch_ —enemy.

“You did a good job in there.”

Darcy barely managed to hold in her shocked gasp and stared ahead at the doors. “Thanks,” she said flatly.

“Hey.” James Buchanan Barnes turned his body. He was facing her. “Have we met?”

She had no choice now but to turn her head. She twisted her mouth in a show of contempt. “Excuse me?”

Leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator, the award-winning actor shrugged. “I feel like we’ve met before.”

Unbelievable. This guy was freaking unbelievable. Darcy could have laughed. She did, a little. A small huff of a laugh that made James Buchanan Barnes frown to some degree in uncertainty.

“So, we haven’t met?” he said, running a hand through his hair. It flopped unceremoniously over his forehead, forcing him to fiddle with it again.

“Oh, no, we’ve definitely met before,” she said, feeling years of stored anger welling inside of her like a balloon ready to pop. “We sure as hell have.”

“Where, then? I’m having trouble figuring that out.”

He sounded so calm. So cool and collected.

So charming. Like he wasn’t the most evil being on the planet.

How could one person be so many different characters? One second he was the narcissistic actor demanding a chemistry read with her, the next he was the boy next door. Darcy could not keep up.

The elevator reached the lobby before she could answer his question. She exited, no longer surprised when he followed her out of the elevator and then out of the building.

Could she consider this stalking? 

It was hot in Los Angeles. Darcy reached inside her purse for her valet stub, her armpits already itching with sweat. She handed the ticket to the man in the red vest.

“You haven’t answered my question,” came James Buchanan Barnes’ voice in her ear.

A gentle breeze wafted through the air. Darcy tucked her thick hair behind her ears, searching for the best response. “I work at the coffee joint on the Warner Brothers Lot,” she said.

James’ squinting blue eyes lit up. “I love it there. I go whenever I can.”

“Yeah.” Darcy lifted her eyebrows and skated her tongue over her teeth. “Yeah, you tried to have me fired on my first day.”

She didn’t say anything more than that. The valet arrived with her car and she quickly took her keys from him in exchange for a tip, leaving the famous actor standing in the sun, his mouth hanging open.

* * *

The apartment was empty without Jane’s presence. Darcy ate ice cream on the sofa following her callback/unexpected-chemistry-read/somewhat-satisfying-encounter-with-her-arch-enemy while she waited for Loki to return from his shift at the café. She could not wait to tell him all about how snippy she had been with very own Lord Voldemort. Not snippy enough, but snippy nevertheless.

As she flipped through the TV channels, her phone buzzed beside her. She put down her ice cream and checked the Caller ID.

“Phil, what’s up?”

“Darcy!” Phil shrieked. This was becoming his favourite way of answering the phone.

Darcy pulled the device away from her ear. “Whoa, what happened?”

“Something amaaazing!” he sang, off-key. “I have the greatest news, Darcy Lewis. Are you ready to hear it?”

Laughing, Darcy switched off the TV. Sergeant Tibbs nudged her arm and she stroked between his ears, smiling when he started to purr.. “Sure,” she said. “Hit me.”

“Darcy Lewis, you have officially been offered the role of Nurse Patricia St. James in the miniseries tentatively titled _The Earth Is My Grave_!” her agent bellowed.

Darcy’s ears rang. The noise was so loud she was sure she had misheard Phil. “I . . . what?” she breathed, staring blankly at the black TV screen. Her hand was frozen atop her cat’s head.

“Can you believe it? And that’s not even the best part!”

“It isn’t?” she said, trying and failing to swallow. Her mouth was completely dry.

“Darcy, they’ve extended your arc!”

“My arc?”

“From one episode to five. They must have really liked you.”

Phil kept talking as Darcy’s head spun.

She got the part. Years of trying and failing to get work in Hollywood and she got the part. And they extended her arc. One episode to five.

She had a name. Patricia.

She had a recurring role as a nurse named Patricia in a miniseries starring Oscar-winning actor James Buchanan Barnes.

“. . . Clint said Bucky put in a good word for you. You already had the job, but I think Bucky was the reason they pushed up your episode count!”

Darcy shook her head. The ringing died down. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

“Oh, right, James Buchanan Barnes. All of his friends call him Bucky.”

“Why?” she asked. Then, “And you’re his friend, Phil?”

“No, but Clint calls him Bucky and Clint’s my friend, so I feel like I can call him Bucky,” Phil professed. “I think the nickname has something to do with his middle name. His grandfather, Buchanan, served in the Second World War and since James’ first role in a war film he’s gone by Bucky.

“But Darcy! You haven’t reacted to getting the part yet!”

“God, Phil, I . . .” Darcy paused, her throat tightening. “Thank you.”

“For what, kid?”

Wiping her eyes, Darcy laughed. “For keeping with me through all of this. You should have dropped me years ago,” she said.

“If I had done that, we wouldn’t be discussing your future role on television with James Buchanan Barnes,” Phil said. “Besides, Darcy, you’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. I’m so happy you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.”

Finishing up her conversation with Phil, Darcy immediately called her father, Jane and Loki. All three of them sounded as choked up as Darcy had on the phone to Phil when they congratulated her. Loki said they would stay up all night and watch their favourite movies while eating all the English snacks in the house and drinking fountains of gin and tonics. Her dad suggested going out to dinner the following weekend, to which Darcy agreed. Jane said they could talk at the café tomorrow and head to a bar after their shift.

Unable to get rid of her smile, not that she wanted to, Darcy pulled Sergeant Tibbs in her lap and switched on the TV. She didn’t even change the channel when the film playing turned out to be _Kings Die_ , James Buchanan Barnes’—or _Bucky_ as he was apparently called—aforementioned first war film. She was too damn happy to care.

Like Loki had said earlier in the week: She was finally on her way.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've decided to take a chance on this story, thank you! I know it's a little odd for these characters to be put in this kind of situation, and that they might read OOC, so I really do thank you for your faith.


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